


The Void Calls

by Adam_Typing



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9109960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adam_Typing/pseuds/Adam_Typing
Summary: With the promotion of a new captain, young and untested Laurencia Fawkes, the Cruiser Methodical must undergo a daring long range raid into the distant Boundary stars, where something ancient has arisen to threaten the Imperium.





	1. Chapter 1

The Old Man had died suddenly. 

Not the suddenness of the death that most of them expected and feared, nor sudden as a gunshot or assassin’s hands, but something quiet, small and unexpected.

But he had died so suddenly and abruptly that no one noticed until after the battle was done. Everyone had been so attentive to their duty - to their screen and their servitors and the war beyond them- that his death had gone unnoticed. No one had noticed The Old Man go silent.

Captain Sevrick Alphonse Demeir had died in his throne, in the middle of battle, so quietly, that several of his officers simply thought he was in deep thought, one elbow resting on his throne’s armrest, supporting his head. It was only when an ensign was circulating their damage report that they noticed the smell of blood, the smell of burnt copper, saw the slow trails of ink dark blood trailing from the nodes about his temple. One hundred and fourteen Standard Terran Years old, with nearly sixty years of experienced shipmastering behind him, Demeir had died imparting a few solid, unremarkable orders before duty burned him out.

The battle was won, and as the small patrol fleet celebrated, firing a cannonade at the enemy wrecks, the attack cruiser Methodical had mourned the loss of its master. When the news passed, celebration changed into consolation, and mourning shrouds were donned across the fleet.

And four days later, when the Old Man had his funeral, his coffin certified and sealed and prepared for the four week journey to his family estate, was the day that Commander Laurencia Fawkes was given the news of succession. In particular, the matter of her succession.


	2. A Matter of Practicals.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passing on the Stave  
> The Spine of Command  
> A Safe Haven

_ The Methodical  _ and her warp escorts were sleek vessels - by Imperial Standards at least- and they cut good time in both realspace and the Immaterium. When she emerged from the Warp, she set her engines to patrol pace, burning brightly, and urging the ship on to safe harbour. The rest of the patrol fleet and the cluster of escorts- frigates and destroyers- glided on in stately formation.

 

Laurencia had spent the hours before harbour communing with her now contemporaries- old Void Hounds that had seen more fleet engagements than they cared to recount- and had listed out the damages they’d taken.  _ Methodical  _ was a hardy Cruiser, and had come out bearing a few new scars, but Laurencia didn’t want the ship’s performance hampered by both a new captain and any damage. The Commodore- a weathered, pockmarked ancient by the name of Varienii- had been the one to pass the stave to her. He had said the ship had two weeks in repair, and then the patrol fleet would begin their picket again. “Two weeks refit and repair is sufficient,” he had said, his gravel-heavy voice hardened further by static distort. No space for discussion. Laurencia nodded, praised the Emperor, and breathed out. It would be her first time talking to the fleet officers as an equal.

 

Laurencia had spent a good number of years- nearly fourteen as an officer- under the Old Man, the Captain, learning what the ship’s role was, how to parse and circulate damage reports, the proper observances for officers and Harbour Masters and the appropriate disrespects that were allowed over formal dinners. Laurencia was thirty six Terran Years old, in nominal command of an attack cruiser - Lunar Class, nearly seven hundred years old- and few had truly anticipated her ascension to that station.

 

She was reviewing a much heavily annotated damage report, printed on thin tissue paper, flicking through the list. Six defensive batteries non-responsive across the ship, a few hull deformations that had vented a compartment line to the void, an engine that had a coolant error, the list went on…

 

She was marking them down, in her own deck compartment- a cell ten foot by ten by eight, with room for her bunk and desk. She had not claimed the Captain’s quarters, said to be a little more luxurious - “ _ A private washroom. Personal ship intervox. An air filtration system that actually makes the ship smell less of sweat,”  _ an ensign had whispered, years ago. It felt ghoulish to claim the quarters before she had formally been made ship captain. Before the Old Man had even been buried.

 

Laurencia was a conscientious soul. That had not been a trait she got from her parents,. It had been a trait she had learned from serving the ship for nearly twenty six years, letting her achieve the rank of Executive Officer, under the First Officer, who in turn answered to the Captain. She could barely remember her family now - And she realised she had allowed her focus to wander a moment, and sighed, concentrating back on the sheet. 

 

She hadn’t quite anticipated that becoming a fleet officer which meant she would be dealing with such a lot of paperwork, but these were the less glamorous realities behind the pomp and circumstance of mastering a ship.

 

She was given a mercy from the paperwork and pen when a hand rapped on the folded steel bulkhead to her compartment. When she opened it- with a clatter of sub-deck gears spinning and a groan of old hydraulics- she saw  _ Methodical’s _ new first officer. A crisp salute snapped to her, and she returned it.

 

In the sterile lighting of the ship corridor, all pressed metal and aquila stamps, he was a pale, slight man, clean shaven.  _ Like a vulture _ , she mused as she gathered up her papers,  _ such a pale face in a dark uniform _ . “Officer Hamek. Good morning,” she said, sliding the damage reports into a leather bound tube, and smiled. “How’s the approach?”   
  
Hamek - or to use his full name Gilbert Tycho Ilmyre Vorens Hamek - had been whispered to be the man to take over the Captain’s throne. He had been around as long as Laurencia, with a formal schooling in ship work that came from his familial lines. Laurencia had been put through a few naval academy courses- whenever  _ Methodical _ was in long haul repair, she had been sat at cogitator simulators and drilled meticulously- but Hamek had far more credence to the claim of command. 

 

If Hamek felt slighted over being overlooked, he hid it well. His thin lips parted in a smile. “Approach vector is clean. No debris issues, and that engine complaint hasn’t worsened. We wanted you on the bridge before we made the final haul,” he said, and the two walked, brisk and purposeful, to the command deck. It would talk a fit and healthy officer ten minutes from the quarters deck to the bridge, and Laurencia had walked this path for years. She was surprised she hadn’t worn away the deck’s diamond pattern hatching with it.

 

“Good, good. Time to broker contact,” she said. It had taken a little effort not to phrase it as a question. She needed to be confident, needed to take the helm as if she had always been there. Laurencia couldn’t allow herself any doubts. Straight back, head held high. Hamek noticed the stiffness of posture, noticed how she held herself. Rigid as steel.

 

He nodded. “I believe Harbour Master Avernice eagerly awaits a proper vox-commune with the ship Captain.” Hamek idly tugged an errant thread from his sleeve trim, brushing it smooth. “Let’s hope we catch him in agreeable mood.”   
  
Laurencia chuckled, as she ascended a flight of stairs, saluting a pair of armsmen at the bridge door. They raised their hands off their shotcannons, knocking them gently against their visor brims, but remained firmly on guard. 

 

The bridge was calmer than it had been a few weeks ago, had lost the rank smell of stress and sweat and adrenaline. It was if the deck walls and plates had been sweating with them when they faced down that raider force. A deep, bounding leap by a handful of Heretical Warships, into the sector heart. It had been simple fortune that the patrol fleet had been at that cluster, had been running its standard picket operation, when the void had churned open and spat the raiders out.

 

The battle had been a brief, intense thing, done so close as to be at knife fight range, and had burned open the hulls of half their escorts. But they had beaten them down, scoured the warp raiders, and left their ship hulks dirtying the orbit of the local star. It was a damn fine victory- five heretical line ships for a trade of three damaged cruisers and two lost Escorts. A rout in Imperial Favour.

  
Laurencia had been coordinating with the Master of Battery when Captain Sevrick had died, when the last enemy ship had started to take a relentless bombardment from  _ Methodical  _ and the picket’s command barge, the  _ Guide From Perdition. _ A surgical lance shot had cored something volatile in the renegade ship’s hull, and turned it to burning scrap. Something lethal splitting it from prow to stern in raw red detonations.

 

Commodore Varienii’s gruff declaration of “Kill recorded,” was broadcast across the fleet channels. It was one of the things that had softened the passing of the Old Man. “Kill recorded,” she remembered. Final, almost dismissive- the sort of tone one would take when finishing a necessary chore.

 

Laurencia heard Hamek call out “Ship Captain on Deck. Stand  _ to _ !” and she took her place at the throne, looking at it. Someone had cleaned the spots of blood from the armrest, from the leather of the head rest, and she took a moment, wondering if she was right for the command.    
  
She steeled herself, breathing deeply, and turned to seat herself, shifting the hem of her longcoat, and rested back against the seat, arms on the chair. Head held high, poised and ready.  _ The Old Man saw that I could do this. Knew that I could. Let’s lead as we mean to go on. _

 

The ship’s officers looked at her, looked up to her, and she eyed over them. Hamek by the Tactical Board and Hololith, adjusting the visuals, Master Of Battery - a steel eyed man by the name of Berekson, who manned his station with a seeming unshiftable frown. The station of Master of Detection was held by Gwyn Von Aberin, a youthful looking lady who spoke a little quickly when relaying details of her work. Laurencia had long since gotten used to her rapid speech, a non-issue. With the Master Of Ordnance, Emanuel, to Gwyn’s left, the four of them made the spine of the ship’s command structure. They nodded, eager to hear new commands.

 

Laurencia looked at them in turn, briefly, before nodding to one of the dozen ensigns about the bridge compartment. “At ease,” Laurencia called. “Vox, open a link to harbour.”

 

_ At ease _ … a command the Old Captain had barked at her thousands of times before. And yet, as she called it, saw every officer relax subtly and return to their consoles, Laurencia found it a little amusing that she had called the crew to stand at ease, but she herself could not relax.

 

There was no time to ponder. A servitor drawled out something, a line of code that meant something to someone, an officer called for silence, and the vox horn began to crackle live next to hear ear. The voice was soft, calming, measured and careful.

 

_ “Attention Crusier  _ Methodical, _ you have transmitted appropriate clearance. Confirm docking purposes.” _

 

She took the ivory crested horn, and lifted it to her mouth. “This is Acting Captain Laurencia Fawkes of the  _ Methodical _ . Requesting Docking for re-armament and repairs,” she said, clear, concise. 

 

There was a pause, and the voice on the other end sounded somewhat disappointed.  _ “Confirm identity.  _ Methodical  _ is logged as captained by Sevrick Alphonse Demeir.” _

 

Laurencia shot a glance down the ornate bridge to one of her comms officers, who looked a little guilty. There were lapses already. Harbour hadn’t been informed. That did not reflect well.

 

“Confirm, Harbour. Sevrick Alphonse Demeir passed away four weeks ago - cerebral burn out during fleet action. I am acting as Captain under Commodore’s Varienii’s orders,” she said, feeling her ill ease being replaced by irritation. “I apologise that you were not informed.”

  
_ “Apologies are unnecessary. I merely expected to hear the voice of my old friend. I am Harbour Master Eliath Avernice, at your service. Slip A-Fourteen has been cleared for your Cruiser. Awaiting docket of repairs… You are invited to attend the Harbour Dinner with the other fleet captains, at your discretion,”  _ the soft voice said, “ _ I await your presence at Slip A-Fourteen’s embarkation deck, Captain Fawkes.” _

 

There was silence, and Laurencia settled the horn back in its cradle.

  
“Caught him on a better day,” Hamek commented softly from his station. Berekson snorted as he snapped his fingers at an ensign under his command.

 

“Avernice has always been mercurial. Been that way since I was a rating,” the older officer said, as the chastened underling adjusted something on his console. “Wonder how the Adeptus never changed that.”

 

Gwyn spoke up, as she readjusted her sensor readings. “This far out, I imagine the Adeptus overlook quirks for ability,” she said. “Avernice did not make Harbour Master because of his personality. He’s efficient.”   
  
Berekson snorted again, and adjusted the one of the defense battery readings, tracing a finger through the hololith image as he checked ranges. “Doesn’t change the fact he’s an annoying bastard to deal with - Mercer, check the calibration on Lance Battery Four, it’s bleeding charge from its capacitors again. Never quite got why the Old Man liked him so much.”

 

They glanced briefly at Emanuel, who simply offered an inventive shrug.

 

Laurencia offered a faint smile, and spoke up. “As much as gossip wiles away the hours on approach, it’s not our place to judge fellow servants of the Throne for their quirks,” she said, and was surprised by how measured she sounded. “Or those of Mars, for that matter.”

 

Hamek raised his voice. “Docking in forty two minutes, twelve seconds,” he called.

 

\----

 

Most of the Patrol Fleet ended up docked, if only to refuel and re-arm. A few,  _ Methodical  _ amongst them, slid into place, amongst tenders and servitor driven armatures. The hull deformation that had vented a compartment line to space- as well as some one hundred souls, throne save them- had been reset. The damaged guns were winched out, and a pinnace with a specialist Enginseer, were scouring over one of the engines, soothing its spirit and repairing the damage that had caused the ire.

 

Laurencia and her Command crew walked a void cold umbilical - air stale and recycled, cold and hard to taste- that bridged  _ Methodical _ to the Harbour.

  
The Harbour was one of a half dozen Port Stations capable of servicing an active warfleet within the sector. It was an ugly, overwrought city in space, constantly growing, expanding, new sections added in symmetry. It was part industrial forge, part starport and part habitat. 

 

The skull and cogwheel insignia of the Adeptus Mechanicus stared down at them, a reminder of the station’s allegiance. There were, of course, guards. And in the typical Mechanicus fashion, they were augmented and armoured. Their robes were a deep rich orange, to stand out against the pressed metal of the deck.

 

Five of them were robed, carrying short, ornate carbines, their hoods dragged up over their heads, the gleam of visor slits beneath the hems. The other two were looming Automata, in gleaming brass and chrome. Their cannons- which they bore across their shoulders- were oversized, brute force weapons, with fat, snaking belt feeds. Laurencia compared them to the smaller defence guns the  _ Methodical _ employed. Easily overkill, if the Mechanicus decided that they wanted violence. There’d not even be enough leave to classify as corpses if they opened fire to clear the bridge.

 

One of the Skitarii- one with a cuirass that so heavily filigreed and embossed it was hard to tell where function ended and decoration began-  approached, and held out one hand. Their other was on the grip of a heavy looking pistol, holstered at the belt. There was a brief squall of static, a hiss-shunt of Binary, and then a click. “Present Identities, and be known,” it said, loud as an engine start up. 

 

She noticed, after a moment of looking over the officer, the pattern of cog teeth along the hem of the robe, noticed that the filigree followed a precise order. It was an impressive uniform.

  
  


Laurencia stepped forward, holding the stave of her new office. It was re-coded to her identity, but until the appropriate ceremony, she’d not be the official Captain of  _ Methodical. _ “Acting Captain Laurencia Fawkes, with command crew,” she said, gesturing to her four . 

 

Not that seemed to matter to the Skitarii Corporal, who eased the stave from her hand, and held it up to their hood. There was a moment, silent, broken only by the creak of the bridgeway, the clank of Automata and the subdued chatter of Skitarii Binarics. The machine-language made anyone who couldn’t speak it nervous, like the sound of some dangerous creature, on the edge of hearing. It also was a measured disrespect, using a private tongue around guests who could not understand it.

 

The Corporal gave a seemingly satisfied nod, and thrust the stave of office to Laurencia. She took it, and bowed, as the Skitarii bowed. The Automata, on standby, gave low, threatening clanks and stepped back, limbs sweeping down and their cannons relaxing. Even when they were not opposing you, they were intimidating, looming things. Laurencia had immense respect for this.

  
“Welcome to Harbour, Captain Laurencia Fawkes,  _ Methodical. _ This station is safe haven for the Imperial Crews, under the Unification Treatise of Terra and Mars. Comply with our edicts. No violence upon this station. Remain within authorised areas,” it said, curtly, stepping back. Its hand never left the grip of that sidearm.

  
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Laurencia said, sliding the stave into a belt loop. “Where may we find Station Master Avernice?”

 

The Skitarii eyed her, the orange glow of his visor slit not once waning. “The Station Master will direct you when he is unoccupied. Until then, remain with the authorised locations.”

 

The brusque reply might have been mistaken for impoliteness, or rudeness. However, Laurencia knew that it was simply that the Mechanicus largely saw niceties as inefficient. Direct, to the point and impossible to misinterpret. That was how they handled their business.

 

Laurencia offered a shallow bow, sweeping the length of her long coat. “My thanks,” she said, moving smoothly, to show that she was not snubbed. Hamek had made a haughty noise at such a reception, whilst Berekson had ground teeth. Gwyn said nothing, but her eyes narrowed faintly. Emanuel, ever one to remain guarded, said nothing and did not react.

  
They were guided to a broad room, a semi circular observation deck, where someone had set refreshments. The sweeping armourglass ports showed the sheer vastness of the void, and the comparatively small slip where  _ Methodical  _ was docked- brief showers of tiny, pin prick light were visible over her hull, as tenders and repair pinnaces went to work.    
  
“Can’t remember a time when the Mechanicus have ever been welcoming,” Berekson said, as he took the pitcher of water, and sloshed a glass full, sipping it. “Hmm. Doesn’t even taste like it’s been recycled.”

 

“The Skitarii are militarised. They’re not made for warm greetings,” Hamek said, hefting one eight sided bottle of some amber tonic, sniffing it, and poured a finger in a crystal cut glass. “But Avernice takes care of his guests, when he is not occupied with Harbour work.” A brief sup of the drink earned a nod of approval. “And the amasec he provides is passable.”   
  
Gwyn sat, fixing the fit of her uniform jacket, where it had bunched under her belt. “Wonder where he sources all of it. That food looks fresh. I had half feared protein slop again.”   
  
“The vegetables are sourced on our Hydroponics deck. A small concession from efficiency for a little luxury. The amasec has been traded along an old supply line that has since fallen - Orks in the Varmain Reaches has strained that trade route,” said a new voice, low and comforting. “I strive to accommodate the tastes of my guests.”

 

Laurencia turned, and the rest of the command crew rapidly turned. 

 

The new comer had closed a hatchway behind them, and turned. The figure wore a facemask of smooth, perfect perspex, which hid their visage. The surface was a glossy black, a stark contrast to the cream coloured, bronze trimmed robes they wore. It almost gave the illusion of a vacant hood.

  
The figure gave a bow, and linked their hands - perfectly engineered replacements in chromed silver- in a Mechanicus salute.

  
“Good day, my friends. I apologise for my delays,” said Station Master Avernice. 


	3. The Master of the Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Oddity  
> The Derelict  
> Mind and Matter

 

Avernice did not partake of any of the refreshments- though the crew of  _ Methodical _ did not allow it to go to waste. He instead sat, hands steepled upon the table, as the crew recounted the death of his old friend. He had also said that he had chosen to meet them, as opposed to call them to his position to “see the new face of  _ Methodical.”  _ He had also taken the tube of repair orders, examined the tissues briefly, before suggesting they sat and ate. Or that the crew ate. He did not.

 

They all knew him, though most in a distant way. Laurencia had seen him speaking with The Old Man - odd how that nickname sprung to mind more so than his name… But he had always seemed ancient to her. She had been so young.

 

And here was someone who was hard to judge the age of. He did not seem old - there were no tells, no flesh to see. But he could not be young, either. You didn’t become an adept of the Mechanicus, nor a station master, without some history. And she felt it brought her own status into sharp relief as someone incredibly young for her own position.

 

“I see. I will indeed miss Captain Sevrick. He was a fine officer of the fleet. And he did not presume that the Mechanicus operated the way the Imperium did,” he mused, and his fingers tapped together, as Laurencia supped her evening Amasec.   
  
“He gave good orders, knew the crew well. He’ll be sorely missed,” she agreed, as she allowed Avernice to refill her glass. “I only hope to serve as well as he has.” 

 

The Mechanicus officer nodded, and set the bottle down- and Emanuel took it with a murmured thanks.

  
“Sevrick had a long service record. Remember that he had been granted a long life to achieve what he did. Your achievements will come in time,” Avernice counseled. “And after all, you have not even taken the ship out in sortie. How can you expect to measure your worth without any indication?”   
  
She offered a smile, glancing down at the crew having their own private conversations, Berekson was chattering to Emanuel, who sat and nodded in silence, attentive. Hamek and Gwyn were hashing out some old, ill forgotten memory of a fleet battle - the number of cruisers against them was apparently the source of some small disagreement.   
  


“And you have yet to take the Captain’s seat officially. The ceremony will hopefully take place today,” Avernice murmured. “Two weeks will also be enough time to repair your ship and allow you recuperation after the necessary modifications.”

  
\-----

 

The main hall was, as many Imperial and Mechanicus buildings were, opulent, grandiose and theatrical. Pennants bearing the spread wing aquila swung overhead. Crystal-flex windows of beatified scenes of humanity’s history stared down, of the Emperor and Omnissiah watching the proceedings with eyes of gold. The assembled command crews, worthies and holies of the Patrol fleet and the station had gathered. Above, through fluted vox horns, hymns of mourning were sung.

 

Ratings who had the honour of bearing coffins carried a line of caskets down the line, bearing them to the front of the ceremony. Honouring the dead, before they were either consigned to the void or sent to their homes. Laurencia saw Sevrick’s coffin, draped with a flag of the Aquila, its golden pinions draping over the sides. She swallowed, praying for his rest, and listened as Commodore Varienii spoke.

 

He was braced in an armature that supported his old frame. Joints and servos hissed and murmured with every step as he ascended, stiff legged, the dais where the coffins were. Seven metal caskets, draped with the Aquila. Seven officers had perished in the last sortie-  some had suffered cerebral burn outs, as had Laurencia’s captain. Others had suffered impact trauma as their ships had been hit by battery fire.

 

Varienii coughed, hawking into a cloth, as something about his frame gave a few chimes. He straightened up, neatened the papers in front of him and began to speak. Avernice was stood beside the platform, the observer for the Mechanicus. The Skitarii Cohort- who all answered to the name “Phoros”- were stood by, watchful guards.

  
“After the victory of our last sortie, we must give thanks to the God Emperor and Omnissiah, for their grace and their engines have granted us a crushing blow to the heretic raiders,” he said, gravel voiced. “And we give thanks to those who gave their lives in Service. We commend these souls to God, and pray that they rest well in victory.”

 

It was a recitation that did not carry much in the way of spirit. Varienii had delivered enough of these speeches in his long life that he doubtless ceased to care for the names that he prayed for. Even Sevrick, an old friend, seemed to barely elicit a reaction from him, as he gave the citation for bravery and duty to the dead.

 

He moved on swiftly, as the crews assembled raised glasses to the dead, drained them and set them on the tables in the hall. Some crew were crying, others stood in stony silence. Others simply smiled at the memories of their fellows.

 

“On the matter of… appropriate crew positions and promotions, I hereby am proud to announce that  _ Methodical  _ has a new captain. Laurencia Fawkes. Please, come to the dais, to formally accept the stave of command,” he said, rapping a cane roughly on the marble of the hall.   
  
Laurencia, dressed in embroidered long coat, frogged jacket and high, patent black boots, struck a regal figure. She was glad that at least stood a little taller than most officers, and remembered to stand straight backed. Her hair was braided back, hands gloved, boots polished so much they were mirrors, and she ascended the stairwell, hand on the pommel of her sabre.    
  
Varienii turned, with a clank like a Titan making shift, and he appraised her for a moment. “Sevrick’s made an unusual choice,” he said, as he passed the stave to her-  the same one she had carried for the last week - “But I am certain the Old Man has seen something in you. Serve well,” the Commodore said, and passed the Letter of Accreditation to her. The papers and certificates that recognised her as a Captain of His Imperial Majesty’s fleet.

 

Laurencia took them, and gave a salute. Her crew began a ripple of applause, which soon was taken up. Some officers clashed their sabres in sheathes, someone shouted, and the clapping continued for some -

 

The deck lighting turned red.

 

The applause was drowned out by an alert klaxon and a servitor’s drone.

  
“ _ Proximity Warp Alert. Proximity Warp Alert. Call to General Quarters. Call to General Quarters,”  _ it drawled, half static. Officers cast around in panic. For a moment, Laurencia found herself wrong footed, glancing up at the nearest speaker, which shook. 

 

Varienii turned sharply, and glared at Avernice. “Damnit, what’s happened?” he snapped at the Adept. Avernice raised one hand.

 

“Apologies, Commodore. I will see to it immediately,” the Station Master said.

 

Varienii nodded, and turned to Laurencia. “Get your crew to station. You know what to do… Captain,” he said. 

  
Laurenica could barely make out the Commodore’s expression, but she nodded, and turned, stave and Accreditation under one arm, as she stormed down the aisle. She passed her crew, called to them.

 

“Right, we know our roles. Get to station. Gwyn, Hamek, vox ahead and get the Armsmen and crew ready for combat. General quarters call,” she said, striding fast. The red light from the alert klaxon made their rich uniforms seem dark and drab.

 

Phoros and a cohort of Skitarii escorted them, directing the crew to their slip. Other Cohorts were guiding Imperial officers, directing them, efficient and without slowing.   
  
Laurencia felt a pit in her stomach, a worrisome knot. She hadn’t had the implants necessary to control the ship at the neural level. She was going to have to do this one by ear and eye. She knew the experience of her crew and command section would be invaluable, if not a saving grace. Her crew were silent, and she could feel the anxiety swelling in them.

 

\----

 

Avernice had not moved from his position at the dais, hands still linked as in meditation. He had station control, and with a moment’s thought, he was learning what the station had been alerted to.

  
The noosphere around him lit up, invisible to all but those appropriately augmented. He altered the flow of his data space, parsing combat alerts and detection details instead of shipping manifests and trade treatises. He roused deck protection, cannon and servitor defenses, and began to ignite the void shields, feeling the crackle of their energy on the station hull, as if it were static on his skin.

 

He sensed the Warp anomaly, through the sensors on the station, the sickly radioactive gleam of it. Avernice wondered what would arrive so close to his Station, risk the gravity well of the gas giant his domain orbited. 

 

And the ship that emerged- like a soul dragging itself from the sea, half drowned, onto the shore- was sickly, was practically dying. He could feel it. Something that would risk moving so close, and unprotected.

 

The possibilities, clicking through his mind, as stately as a metronome, were not comforting. He moved from the dais, managing a dozen tasks, and letting Commodore Vareinii coordinate his crews. 

 

The sector had been once a great warzone, a vast cluster of stars embroiled in a frantic, world spanning conflict. Heretics had banded with xenos mercenaries to bring war to a small corner of the Imperium, nearly five hundred years ago. The legacy had been years of small, border conflicts in a sense, with the Boundary Stars spinning out to the edge of the galaxy beside them, and the rest of the Imperium at their backs.

 

Avernice began to doubt that his domain was the safe haven it was, even so far back from the system edge.

 

\---

 

The vessel had clawed its way from the Immaterium. It hung in the void, engines belching and fuming, turning it in a slow, wide arc. It hung there, twisting gently, as if drunken, trying to steady itself. 

 

It tried, struggling and twisting, to steer its way, to Harbour. It was blind and bleeding and wounded, and it turned to face the station, and limped its way along.

 

\---

 

They were in the bridge, twenty minutes from alert. It had been a flat sprint from the hall entryway, down several decks and to the airgate umbilical, but now Laurencia and her command staff took their seats, bringing up displays, engaging drive, and checking vox. 

 

Laurencia, throwing her coat over to an Ensign to deal with, hauled herself into the command throne, swiped her geno-key over the arm rest’s sensor and activated the personal hololith. A small sphere, displaying the immediate vicinity of her vessel, sprung into life beside her throne and she began adjusting.

 

“We need drive active as soon as possible, secure disengagement permissions from Harbour control, and inform all pinnaces, ship tenders and servitor crews we will be moving and lighting shields the moment we are granted permission. Berekson, tell gunnery crews to ready the broadsides and primary lances. Gwyn, I’ll want telemetry from the sensors updated as soon as possible. Emanuel, coordinate the Fury, Lightning and Starhawk wings, get them ready for interdiction,” she said, rapid as she could, drumming out commands. “First Officer Hamek, sound the alert for General Quarters, and prepare the crew.”

  
They could feel it, the sudden way that combat readiness coursed back through them- and they could taste it, acid bile on the back of the tongue, a sudden sweating and heart rates spiking. The crew that were hard linked to the ship through cortex plugs and cranial implants felt it most of all- their hearts hammered in time with the sudden rousing of the ship’s reactor, hair standing on end as their sensors went to work.

 

“ _ Methodical _ sensor array active, we have vox links and are tracking. Cruiser  _ Stand And Deliver _ is first on station, moving to challenge,” Gwyn announced, swift and breathless. “Captain Antonid’s first officer is broadcasting vox challenge, and has his battery raised…. Can’t tell the ship class. It’s… throne of god, it’s practically bleeding radiation,” she hissed.

 

Berekson was directing his coterie of ever harried ensigns to order. “Macro cannons are loaded, Lances are spooled and our defense guns are ranged. Good to go on our end,” he glanced at the tactical screens he had. “Ship must be big though, for a radiation signature that size. Battlecruiser?” he said.

 

Emanuel spoke. “Possibly. First wings of Furies are loaded, Starhawks are ready. On your order, Captain.”

 

Laurencia nodded. “Damnit, we’re still locked to the slip. Tell the Station Master, or someone worth a damn, that if we don’t authorisation and get released by the time the shooting starts, I’m moving regardless.”   
  
That drew a breath from all of them. If _ Methodical _ began to move before the station’s mooring complex and fuel tethers had been removed, there’d be catastrophic damage to the station, and risk fuel spilling back and igniting in the harbour. And, if the voids were lit, that’d blind this part of the station and cut it to pieces. Laurencia knew it sounded reckless, endangering thousands on this corner of the port. But her ship needed to get in the fight regardless, when it came down to it. Sitting in the slip, unshielded, was tantamount to suicide. Hard choice, and she could make it already.

 

“Any response from the intruder vessel?” she asked, after a moment’s silence. Gwyn shook her head.

  
“Nothing- but with all that rad leakage, I’d be amazed if any signal got through. Hang on, it’s… slowing. Stopped when  _ Stand And Deliver _ voxed. Might have detected it,” the Master of Detection said, finally linking her cortex plug to her cogitator unit, eyes defocusing a moment as she began to read information directly from the ship sensors. 

 

The Master of Battery turned to look at Laurencia. “Can’t get a clear shot with more than half our batteries with the station in the way,” he said, “Could use the defense lasers to cut the tethers. Be probably the safest bet.”

 

“Noted, keep our defence matrix up and loaded,” she breathed, and drummed her fingers on the armrests, drumming on the old leather. The hololith displayed the defensive grid around  _ Methodical  _ in a haze of sketchy green lines, where shields and cannon fire would best protect the ship. 

  
There was a moment, and Gwyn reported that the cruisers  _ The Crucible  _ and  _ Victory of Terra _ had joined  _ Stand and Deliver  _ and its escorts to challenge the intruder. With that much firepower arrayed, Laurencia breathed out, a little relieved. Her own crew seemed to have started relaxing too.

 

Not safe yet, but they’d have time whilst the three cruisers hammered whatever decided to be foolhardy enough to try and fight through that field. But sometimes, heretic warships did not behave in a sensible manner.

  
“Gwyn, you said the ship is holding position?” Laurencia asked, looking at her Master of Detection. The officer glanced up, and then read off the distance from a patch of data upon her console.

 

“Holding position one hundred and sixteen thousand kilometers from Harbour,” she confirmed, running her fingers through a hololith, dragging the red haze that was the enemy contact in for closer inspection. “It’s at an odd angle, not level with our battlesphere alignment. Like it’s listing.”

  
“I don’t think this is a threat,” Laurencia said, finally. “I mean, this isn’t something here to attack.”

 

Berekson glanced up. “It translated far inside the system. Imperial protocols dictate using the System Mandeville Point, and not translate in closer. It’s a risk to in system shipping and defenses, and if you’re too close to a gravity well, it can mess with translation. Most things jumping in this close do it to surprise us,” he said, “So I’m not following, Captain.”

 

Hamek glanced between the two, as Laurencia rose, and stood by the tactical board.

“It’s not moving. If it were an attack ship intent on fighting through to the station, or the Imperial holdings, they’d simply have run their engines at real space maximum and push forward to bombard the station. Hell, they could’ve rammed it at that distance. Even battery fire wouldn’t have slowed a full on charge,” she said, gesturing to the icon that indicated the intruder- and the red haze that was its radiation bleed. “We’ve had half an hour since the translation alert, and it has been crawling here. Like it’s dying. And it is dying.”

 

_ “Attention all Imperial Crews and Harbour defense crews. Do not fire upon the unidentified vessel,”  _ a voice crackled, on broad address vox. It rasped from the speakers. “ _ Repeat. There is to be no fire laid upon that vessel.” _

 

“Is that Avernice?” Hamek began, and then winced as Varienii’s voice crackled back.

 

“ _ Avernice, are you mad? That vessel is within bombardment range of the Harbour,” _ the patrol fleet commodore said, “ _ We should turn it to scrap now, before it has a chance to threaten this port.” _

 

There was an undeniable logic to Varienii’s demands. The idea of just leaving a hulk of a ship near the station was a threat, an unacceptable risk. No one in the fleet was at all content with letting it remain. And the Harbour was one of the only Imperial orbital stations capable of servicing and maintaining the fleets and supplying them. It provided valuable service and munitions to the patrol fleets, and losing that would compromise the whole sector.

 

Laurencia wondered if the commodore would heed the Station Master’s request, even as she was ordering her crew to readiness, trying to wrangle the Slip officers to allow her vessel to be freed from its tether. The mere fact she and her crew were essentially trapped only made her more anxious in the face of that new vessel. And Avernice would almost certainly despise any damage done to his station.

  
“ _ I can assure you that the fleet will not suffer anything from that ship. It is in no condition to attack. I will request fleet captains to listen and pay attention to my information,”  _ the adept said, calm and unflappable.

 

The centre hololith flashed and changed- Hamek made a startled sound as his console gave a blurt of code- and the ship became the central most feature of the glowing image.

 

“ _ Notice that the radiation and thermal signatures of the ship indicate significant hull damage. It also indicates their void shield is non-functional, or not raised in the knowledge that strain on a damaged reactor may overwhelm it, and ruin the ship further. A Core Hypovolemia event.” _

_   
_ Varienii breathed out, a rasp over the vox, and everyone could tell he was marshalling his patience. “ _ So, you’re saying it can’t raise shields or drive to full potential? And that means battery too, correct?” _

 

Everyone on the bridge glanced around, and swallowed slowly.

 

“ _ I believe this vessel is on the brink of destruction and it is doing everything in its power to not fall apart. And that includes doing as little as possible.” _

\---

 

The bridge of Varienii’s command vessel - the Vengeance Class Grand Cruiser  _ Guide From Perdition _ \- was far more grandiose and holy than the vessels of the line, and it boasted more officers and ensigns. This meant when you needed an officer, you damn well had one on hand. But sometimes, it meant that the crew had an abominable time getting jobs done when there was a frantic need to do something. But a well drilled crew like this would easily fulfil their duties.   
  
The  _ Guide _ ’s first officer complained as Avernice simply rerouted the imagery of his hololith - a sign the station master had more control than he let on- and glanced up at the Commodore, who stalked the upper dais of the centre of the bridge, like a caged lion. He was drumming his cane along the marble chased deck, and swallowed.

 

“So, you’re supposing that all this means that the vessel is, in fact, simply just fleeing here, for safe harbour?” he asked, grunting as he reached to scratch under his jawline. A wire that ran along his carotid giving him a little grief, a distraction he did not enjoy at this moment.

 

“ _ That is correct. I believe that this ship is Imperial, and has fled some catastrophe. The damage, which is visible by servitor drone, rather than scanner, indicates significant lance and torpedo damage. Truly, this ship has had a miraculous journey. It is statistically improbable that this vessel would have endured any length of time in the warp,” _ the adept drawled. “ _ But, I imagine its commander had to risk such a journey.” _

 

\---

 

The vessel, sickly and broken, finally shifted. An airgate, low on its debris crusted hull, cracked open, and the escape of air meant it shifted, as if gently nudged… and a single lighter, an Aquila lander fit for void work, flitted from the open hull, and began a slow journey. It appeared on every detection grid, a small icon that suddenly flashed Imperial Blue on the Battlesphere.

 

Gwyn, on the Bridge of the  _ Methodical _ , swore very softly. “Oh… Holy throne…”   
  
Laurencia leaned back, and steepled her fingers. “What the hells could maul an Inquisitorial Warship like that?”


	4. Harbinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crow  
> A Tithe  
> A Captain Indeed

The Aquila made landing in one of the Harbour’s sprawling airgates. It had obviously not endured what the ship had so well, much of its wing structures showing folds and creases where something had impacted it. Technicians and servitors moved forward, hauling cable trunking and arc tools to tend to the damaged lander. Phoros and the Skitarii advanced with them. The Skitarii drew their sidearm, hauling the pistol from its leather holster, and placed their thumb on the safety. 

The lander’s drop ramp hit the deck, after a few false starts from the hydraulics, the sound echoing through the hold space, and Phoros snapped the safety to armed. The pistol gave a shrill whine for a moment, charged.

The Skitarii watched the first personnel step from the ship. Clad in thick, cumbersome Hazard Suits, the Inquisitorial personnel made their way down the ramp, striding onto the deck. In their high visibility armour, they lacked the ceremony and pomp that an Inquisitorial detachment would want.

Four of them had carbines, and they stopped at the sight of the Skitarii - armed with their curious, compact rifles, they were indeed a threatening sight. But one of the Inquisition held up a hand, slung their weapon, and approached, undoing the clasps on the suit visor.

The man beneath the suit was young looking, scarred and tattooed. Phoros did not pay attention to the markings, instead noticing the way the soldier carried himself. Not a career soldier. Swagger, posture, criminal, Phoros mused. The Skitarii held up one hand, to order him to stop.

“You are unknown. Identify yourself,” the skitarii said, loud enough to carry over the sounds of the Servitor crew and deck mechanisms. 

There was a smile, a salute. “Hetman Arsene Foreem,” the soldier said, holding out a hand, the traditional gesture. And some things were not so far removed from humanity that - after a moment’s measure, a moment’s pause - Phoros returned the handshake, the metal of their fingers gleaming beside the bulky hazard suit gloves. “Apologies for the surprise arrival. Vox mast was down. And we couldn’t get close for direct transmission. Radiation leak. Hence the suits,” he said, gesturing to the hazard suit.

“Noted. We have not detected radiological contamination on the Lander. The suits are unnecessary,” the Skitarii said, but did not move to holster the charged pistol. The security of the station was still on their mind. “I am Skitarii Phoros. Are you in command here?”

The Hetman gave a laugh, and shook his head, gesturing to the Aquila where the other three Inquisitorial Soldiers stood by. “Not me, not by a long shot. Those three are under me, but the Inquisitor… well, she’s in there. You’ll see.”

Arsene turned to give a wave to the crew, and they nodded, two of them ascending back into the hold of the Aquila. “Our ship encountered a fair bit of trouble. Miracle we got out intact. Can’t be sure she’s void worthy much longer. And the Inquisitor’s not faring much better.”

There was the hissing of something going live, an electrical buzz, and the two Inquisitorial staffers that had retreated into the Aquila were guiding something down. Phoros watched for a moment, and then turned to Arsene. “I shall call up servitor lifters to assist.”

The Hetman gave a thin smile. “Much appreciated, sir.”

\---

Laurencia found herself amongst the respected captains of the patrol fleet. They had been called to a briefing room, Commodore Varienii had paced into the room, flanked by Avernice and Hetman Arsene. Behind them, a pair of Servitors were hauling some kind of palanquin into the briefing chamber.

The assembled captains of the fleet watched the approaching frame, and their jaws dropped. Hetman Arsene took to the front and cleared his throat. He had doffed the bulky hazard suit, revealing a suit of sleek grey body armour and a faded red coat, and he looked far more noble and presentable than when he had boarded.

“Attention assembled officers. I am Hetman Arsene,” he said, stepping forward. “I am speaking on behalf of Lady Inquisitor Taskar Al Rahim, of the Ordo Hereticus. She extends her apologies for her disrupting this station’s operations, and that she cannot speak personally.”

The palanquin was not a simple throne that the Inquisitor was carried in on. They all realised it was a Salvation Casket. A hermetically sealed unit, supported on a heavy platform, and it hissed and heaved with air exchangers. It exuded a frosty mist, and inside, they could see the Inquisitor, sat upon the throne, crowned in frost, swaddled in medical gauzes and practically enthroned in intravenous feeds and drips. Tanks dripped condensation to the floor, in slow, melt water drips.

And they could see she was alive in there, drawing ragged breaths with every moment, as a machine ticked them, as steady and predictable as a metronome.

She raised one hand, inside the glass structure, and gestured to Hetman Arsene…. And his posture changed. He stiffed, eyes rolling up for a moment. The air suddenly grew cold, frost forming patterns on the deck. There was a taste of grease in the air, a weird light. Laurencia and several officers drew back. Varienii grit his teeth, and glanced at Avernice. The Adept did not seem perturbed.

And then he spoke again. There was something different about Arsene’s manner, the way he was standing. His hands came together, and he breathed out. “Thank you, gracious officers of the Imperial Navy. My apologies, for having to speak through my Hetman. But the flesh is frail,” Arsene said, their voice carrying an odd echo. The Inquisitor, in her Salvation Casket, had one hand raised, fingers tensing a little.

“But I have come far and suffered greatly, for our Holy Imperium. A threat is rising, upon our borders. The great conclaves of our enemy, the Archenemy, have arisen,” she said, in the voice of her officer. “The Sector is at risk.”

\---

“She has suffered a severe amount of radiation poisoning. But the Salvation Casket will indeed keep her alive and largely pain free whilst I have the Chirurgeons go to work,” Avernice confided in Arsene, as they walked. “I believe that synthetic skin grafts can replace most of the damaged epidermis, and with a vast amount of augmetic work, she will live.” The adept sounded almost pleased to have such an extensive workload.

Arsene glanced over where the fleet officers were reading over the details the Inquisitor had brought. She had spoken, til exhaustion had broken the link and the machinery that braced her poisoned frame had gone into overwhelm. Arsene had to wipe away the blood that ran from his nose, but he knew his duty, and knew that small things like that were the price to pay.

“We’d be indebted to you, Adept,” Arsene said, walking through the atrium above the briefing room, looking over the filigreed railing into the morass of officers debating. There seemed to be a disagreement over the exact strategy. “Looks like we’ve got a lot of work til we can raise Sector defenses.”

“You’re far from the Sector Coreworlds. Mustering defenses will take time,” said a voice behind them, and the Adept and Hetman turned. Laurencia, dressed in her uniform, sabre at her hip, had jogged up to follow them. “We’ll need to take this to Sector Command, and if the fleet can convince them of the threat, then they’ll mobilise.”

Arsene raised an eyebrow, and coughed a little. “Pardon. You’ve got me at a disadvantage- you are?” he asked, appraising her. Laurencia snapped off a salute.

“Captain Laurencia Fawkes, of the crew of Methodical. I’ve been looking over the details of your briefing and I want to vet it,” she said. “The patrol fleets can handle raiders and loose vessels, but if it’s an invasion force, we’d need to mobilise full Battle Fleets and Guard regiments. And we can only do that if a lot of voices raise up in agreement.”

“You’re also going to want the Astartes Chapters, but even the Inquisitor’s authority can go so far,” Arsene said, resting back against the wall. “You seem a smart one, Captain Laurencia. Do you think the threat is great enough?”

Laurencia felt this was a measuring moment. “Your ship - the Where Brave Souls Tread,- is an Avenger Grand Cruiser. And if it’s an Inquisitorial vessel, I’d warrant there were some benefits that a normal ship of the line wouldn’t have. And yet, the damage was significant. That tells me that you’ve engaged something - and I doubt you engaged alone.”

Arsene nodded, and eased a hip flask from his coat, popping the catch on the battered and dented bottle. “Basic appraisal. But shows you paid attention. Especially to our ship. Which is almost as telling as the damages, huh? I’m not going to lie, I swore the ship would tear itself apart in the damned Warp. But the Emperor protects, even poor bastards like I.”

Laurencia laughed a little - and took the hip flask when proffered, knocking a brief shot of it, some eye watering drink that was more akin to paint thinner than a nightcap- and she spoke. “An Avenger boasts far greater weapon batteries. There are few ships of its weight class that can outgun it one to one. And if you were with a fleet, you were encountering something of significant threat… and you said it was in the Boundary Stars?”

The Hetman took the flask back, pocketing it. “Thinking hard on it, aren’t you? Well good. And yes, we were in the Boundary Stars. Bleak space. Never been anywhere like it, and Inquisitorial service has sent me into weird spaces,” he admitted. He laughed.

“What were you in the Boundary for?” Laurencia asked.

The laughter stopped.

Arsene’s expression went stony. “Not for me to say. That’s the Inquisitor’s business. But it was a good thing we were. Else this invasion would have been noticed when Chaos was burning planets and culling populaces,” he said, and his voice had an odd, hard tone to it.

There was something in that explanation that made her pause. Ah, yes, of course the Inquisition would hide their intentions. The Boundary stars was a patch of systems that existed on the edge of the Galaxy, right before the vast, impossible void. They were heathen places, that the Imperium had left to the outcasts. There could be no good in a place so far from the Emperor’s light, they said, and left it at that.

Of course, where one did not bring light, then darkness would fester. The Archenemy found such places to be great havens, and so the Boundary had earned an even darker reputation for reavers and heretics. It was why, so rarely, raider fleets would emerge, pillage a system, or tackle a trade route, before returning back. 

But unless you wanted to raise a Crusade Fleet and bring light to that darkness, then what could one truly do?

“That’s fair. The Inquisition has its business, and the Navy has theirs. I won’t pretend that I have any right to know,” Laurencia said, noticing that Avernice seemed to be preoccupied with the debate going on below. “But we need to develop a working relationship if the Admiralty will listen to our proposal and begin sector defenses. Do you agree?”

Arsene nodded, and then gestured over the railing to the conclave below. “I do. But remember, I’m just a trusted hand for the Lady Inquisitor. We’ll need to convince the Commodore and her to broker any sort of arrangement.”

Laurencia breathed out, and rested her elbows on the railing. “They’re… debating battle tactics when we don’t even have the materiel to commit.”

With a laugh, Arsene nodded, and turned away. “A war waged by committee is lost. And here they are trying to have a debate on it. I’m seeing to my crew. The first evacuation lot from the Brave Souls will arrive in the hour. Hoping that the medicae deck can do their best for them… not a lot of the crew survived the action.”

“My condolences, sir Foreem. I pray they find rest at the Throneside.”

\---

Inquisitor Al Rahim was sedated. The Primus Medicae deck was busy with a hundred endeavours, with new arrivals every minute. Most were crew ratings that simply had opiates and pain relief, put to rest, and ignored when valued bridge staff, engineers and Inquisitorial savants were brought forward for actual attention.

A legion of augmeticists, cyber-surgical practitioners and Adepts were crowding around Al Rahim. Her dark skin had been made pallid by sickness, poison and the cryostasis of the Salvation Casket, and much of it was cracked, with tiny hints of blood red running through- like some valuable treasure in a rock seam.

They determined her liver, kidneys, lower intestines and stomach were beyond saving, and began to prepare augmetic alternatives. Her heart, whilst thready and weak, was patched with synth-layers and vat grown protein meshes.

Avernice watched it all, through the eyes of a Servitor, and breathed out a sigh. This was a sensitive matter, and required a delicate touch. Saving the Inquisitor would certainly earn him and the Harbour a significant ally. And the warning she had brought, well… they were a few systems away from the uncertain border of the Boundary Stars. 

And suddenly, all that distance did not feel like a buffer at all. It felt like so much empty space between the station and those pagan expanses. 

Avernice did not feel fear. Not as a normal man did, but he had no desire to see his station go to ruin, or for his holdings and domain to be ransacked. If the enemy was rising beyond the boundary, that was a real, quantifiable threat. Routes of material were at risk. Imperial and Mechanicus holdings were at risk. It might be small, but as a small crack in a foundation spreads and widens, such things would weaken the Imperium, such would a sufferance of material and Imperial security would ripple back...

And the practical response to such notions were, of course, a healthy amount of concern. Definitely not fear. Phoros, to Avernice’s left, turned their visored face to the Adept, detecting the slight shift in their master’s Noospheric presence - like noticing a friend’s face crinkling in distaste. Avernice sent a data blurt - a shrug, and Phoros returned their machine precise focus to their duties, directing their Skitarii.

Avernice agreed with Laurencia- as one of the Chirurgeons went to work with a laser scalpel to start cutting into the poisoned flesh- and knew that voices needed to be raised.

\---

“The Sector Admiralty will likely not back the proposal,” the Commodore said, at a meal that should have followed the ceremony proper. Captain Laurencia and Hetman Arsene were sat beside him, and he spoke between mouthfuls of grox.

“They won’t authorise a Battle Fleet mobilisation unless there is concrete evidence that there is indeed an invasion imminent. Not that they don’t appreciate the notion of a threat, but to move valuable resources on something like this…” He worked over a particularly gristly bit of meat, and glanced up at Laurencia. “And you understand this, don’t you?”

Laurencia nodded, “The Inquisitor’s data, whilst compelling, doesn’t carry enough weight. That’s why I’m suggesting we distribute the data to the other patrol fleets and defense stations, and see if we get their voices behind it. I mean, we can’t abide a Chaos fleet establishing a foothold in our territories.” She had long since finished her meal, and Arsene was wolfing down a second helping.

Varienii supped at his drink, sucking it around his teeth for a moment, and stared at her. “That might not be enough. We’d need significant evidence and numbers. Fleet dispositions, potential launch points, sectors at risk. We’d have to launch raids and sorties into the Boundary stars, and in places so far removed from the Emperor’s light, we’d be risking ships in the warp. Especially if we need to make long, bounding journeys. Navigators are, for all their abnormalities, only human too.”

Laurencia frowned. She had hoped - naive though it may be - that her suggestions would tilt the Commodore to putting his backing behind their notion. But he remained unconvinced. Laurencia had to admit, the evidence from the Inquisitor - one battered ship, corrupted and half nonsense sensor longs and combat reports - were hardly firm evidence. Even an Inquisitor’s Authority would perhaps, simply get the wheels turning - and with Al Rahim in for a long, excruciating recovery - her personal voice and authority couldn’t even push that on.

Sector Admiralty would listen to Inquisitors - of course, they had an authority and standing beneath only the Emperor, and to some degree, the High Lords of Terra. But they were practical beasts, who saw wars and conflicts across their domains. And as such, they had to measure the weights and practicals of moving fleets, moving resources, when threats mounted across the stars of Imperial Space.

“Besides, Laurencia. You still need to undergo your surgical procedures for the Neural Implantation. And Methodical requires some significant repair work. Two weeks, remember. Then we can start worrying about this Invasion.”


	5. The Spirit of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood For Blood  
> Upon Our Damned Souls  
> Conquest

The changing of command was signalled - as it was in these times - with blood. 

Not blood spilled as one soul pacting to another, two kindred spirits spilling their own to form a bond.

It was blood spilled in challenge.

His name was Eiratain, and he had served the Chosen of the the Warp for some time. He did not know how long. The years had passed in the Boundary, but no one had ever kept track. Except the Adjudicators. But he had served, first in the arming houses as a youth, serving officers and preparing their wargear. Then he had been inducted into the regiments, and through bloody service, into the Citadel Guard.

He was not a Lord yet, anyways. And that meant he was intended to keep a hand on his falchion and serve the Chosen.

And he had served so very loyally. To the point where, one of them - in armour the colour of pearls - had placed its hand upon his shoulder, and urged him to claim command. Urged him to begin this much delayed campaign.

“Eiratain, Blessed Son,” it had hissed, with a face made of metal and a voice as soft silk, “These old fools have put off this Campaign. They fear retribution from Imperials. They do not understand how soft and fragile those borders are, those worlds are. And are we not meant to be conquerors?”

Those words rang through his head, as he glanced up, wiping blood from his cheeks. The rest of the Blessed were watching from the edge of this old arena. Are we not meant to be conquerors? Behind him, at the side of the room, Swaratzhund whirred and clanked, stirring about on its clawfeet. The Automata watched the pantomime before it with glossy green targeting lenses. 

His sword was still in his mailed fist, and he turned, his heavy carapace armour bearing a new stain across the cuirass. His sword dripped still, ink dark droplets, and he swept it out. There was a wet spatter across the flagstones, and he advanced on the Chosen. The words of the Conclave hissed from his lips. “There shall be no hesitance. He failed because he hesitated,” Eiratain said, using a rag to clean the last bloodstains from the blade.

The corpse - the failure - was making a dark mirror across the stones, and the Blessed Son stepped over him. The Corpse had been the Martial Lord of the Boundary Star’s forces. A commander in chief who would rally fleets and armies. An old man, who had not lead a battle in many decades. One who had let frailty guide him to old age and left him unfit for the purpose. But he did not choose to step down peacefully. And that was why Eiratain had to kill him. And in that blood, bound himself to the path.

“And you’re all failing,“ he said, firmly. “I hear you speak fearfully of Imperial Retribution. We command a mighty fleet, a mighty army. God-Sons wander among us, as do the Daemons of the Warp, and I hear you speak of fear.” He clenched his fist, tight enough around the warsword’s hilt that the leather creaked. “We are what the Imperium fears. People not bound by worship to an unmoving god. People not bound by a society that demands compliance, or weak willed obeisances. They fear us, my Brothers, my Sisters.”

And he stood before them, sword point down, and spoke. “My Chosen has directed me. Spoken to me with the Gods’ voices. They tell me that it is disgraceful the Imperium presumes us to be mere heathens, that we cannot defend our worlds. When we beat back their fleets, their intrusions, are we content to simply let them run? Why do we fear their retribution, but we don’t ever strike back?”

One of the Senior Blessed shifted in her throne, her armour and cloak declaring a loyalty to the Blood God in brazen runes. She seemed to be smiling though the rictus that afflicted her face, an old wound that had made her see the world through a morbid grin, was deceptive. “Blessed Son Eiratain, you stir us so firmly, that I would swear Khorne Himself has blessed you,” Palasus said, hissing out the words. Her fingers, intricate creations of brass and ceramite tapped on the table, and she smiled. “I harbour no fear of the Imperials. I speak only for myself. But I am certain the Brigades and Cohorts of my God’s choosing would be eager to spill blood. I am with this Crusade.”

Easy enough to sway the Blood God’s Daughter to war. It called to them, like the way blood called to sharks in water. Eiratain knew he had the easiest victory with her, and turned to the other three Chosen.

He sometimes wished that he lived within the borders of another Chaos held cluster, where one God had sway. It would have been simpler. But here, in this… tenuous unity of Four God’s domains, he had to tread carefully, and seek to overwhelm dissent with a unified series of voices.

Sayari, a Sorceror who had a seat upon the Lordly Thrones, wore iridescent robes that seemed to smoke and flow with unsettling movements. Scales and feathers decorated him, and his face - mercifully enough - was half masked by a crystalline visage. Eyes seemed to crowd his face, moving in constant, hunting twitches - and that made the way they would all focus and seem to contract when looking at Eiratain all the more unnerving for their machine precise aim.

“There are dangers to this path, Blessed Son,” the sorcerer said, curling clawed fingers about each other, “Some I can foresee. I cannot yet give my own consent to this course of action. I will not guide my fellow Magi to join you, or follow any war that you seek. I must think on this.”

Eiratain leaned forward. “There are surely things to glean from those Imperial spaces. Troves of some knowledge that you desire, Lord Sorcerer,” he said, playing to a hunger for knowledge. “That ship we drove off, the Inquisitor’s vessel… surely they have strongholds that are ripe with wisdoms you and your Seers want.”

Eiratain did not wait to hear Sayari’s response, rounding to the last two, eyes gleaming, almost manic now. “They raid our worlds, attack our fleets, and we shall just ignore this? Lord Mortarch, Lady of Excesses, are we to simply just drive them off and then ignore such blatant insults? Tell me you are not going to simply allow this to happen?”

Lord Mortarch Aslarin was a wraith like creature, swaddled in cables and tubing, a trio of glowing lenses making up his face - at least where it was not hooded and festooned with hoses that gurgled. His voice was the rattle of a dying person’s and his fingers, beneath the rough leather of his gloves, were skeletally thin and paper pale. But despite that seeming frailness, there had to be a strength. He gave a gurgling cough, and ran his fingers over a dataslate that he had set before him. “It would seem,” he said, his baritone voice husky and low, “That you have a way with words that would shame a demagogue, Blessed Son. I will consider the words of my brethren before I commit.” 

And Lady of Excesses Vaidt well deserved her name. Her gluttonous appetites had left her gargantuan, stricken with all manner of deformity and malformation, but she smiled with teeth of perfect pearl white, and her eyes were a stunning gold. She laughed, a sound as jovial and belly deep as one would expect. “I am surprised you’re not wearing the Blood God’s brass about your neck, boy,” she said, half chiding him. “But I understand that the God’s Sons may have spoken to you, and we all loyal servants to their causes too. I shall gift my soldiers in a crusade… though Palasus may have issue with that.” And her eyes, striking gold, turned to measure the Lady of War’s reaction.

That grin, that unnerving grin, never left that face, and Palasus simply laid her metal fingers upon her desk. Her attendants, warriors in scaled armour, and carrying heavy lascarbines, seemed to bristle. One even reached down, and attached a bayonet to the rifle’s foremount lugs. A showy threat. “Be careful, dear Sister, for I rarely allow insults to pass unanswered. And I should hate for either of us to be deprived of our attendants,” she said, her rictus grin unchanging.

Vaidt’s attendant, sat by her throne like a lazing hound, was a rather androgynous looking warrior. Their black hair was bound back in a long plait, and horns curved from their head like a crown- beset with gold and pearl against the ebon black protrusions. Eyes of gold, like the Lady of Excess’, scanned upwards, and the figure rose, one hand idly resting on the sabre at their waist. “And I’d hate to cause more of a mess than our good Chosen has made. Please, Lady Palasus, we need not resort to violence here,” the curious figure said. They raised a hand placatingly and smiled. It was a handsome smile, sincere and surprisingly open for a devotee of the God of Excess. “Not when there are more deserving foes out there.”

“Enough,” Eiratain snapped at them all. “Lady Palasus, Lady Vaidt, I am honoured and privileged that you have pledged to this crusade,” he continued, and stared at the Mortarch and Sorcerer. “We cannot be idle. The Imperium’s borders are fragile. They are weak. We can strike, expand our territories. There are many worlds that will bolster our stars, will feed our people and provide for our industries. And in all our wars, we end up bolstering our armies with soldiers who see that servitude to our gods is preferable to death under the Corpse God.”

Sayari regarded him, and Eiratain felt a chill run through him. For a moment, as if time had stilled, the Sorcerer spoke.

“I warn you. There will be many dangers upon this path. I will not commit until I am at your side and advising you. I will have further conditions. But until such things are guaranteed, I will not let any of those under my command join you.”

And with that, the chill faded, the tension lessened and time resumed. Eiratain glared at the Sorcerer. Ah, of course. One of Tzeentch’s flock would not be content unless they had their damned fingers in the meat of command.

And Mortarch Alsarin was utterly silent. Even the alchemical vessels that supported his deathly frame seemed to be quiet, but he was regarding the Chosen with some attention. 

Perhaps, Eiratain thought, as he struck a bow, and left the Arena, there would be easier ways to convince them.

Now… all that was needed was a fleet. And the backing of the Shadow Mechanicum.

\---

Above the Arena, in a gallery that looked up into the night sky, the Astartes spoke.

They were a mongrel squad, made up of disparate sons of Legions and Renegades, brought together by circumstance and chance. It had been… uncertain, when all of them had arrived, or swore brotherhood to each other. But in some way, they had all looked to him for Leadership. Or at least, as someone to respect. It might have been his uncertain heritage that had brought them to all look at him as their unofficial commander.

Eiratain’s Chosen - a towering brute in pearl bright armour, whose visor was permanently upon his face - watched the proceedings. He had been… amused at the duel, amused at his Blessed one’s skills, and then the speeches. As if he had rehearsed them and learned them by rote. If that face could smile, it would be showing naked satisfaction.

“So you put up the humans to give us a little sideshow, for what, Skarsaan?” one asked - in armour that was as red as dusk. The Word Bearer seemed to have been elected to speak for the others, who were murmuring, in earthy rumbles, behind him. 

Cen’Anvar leaned over to look down at the departing Blessed Eiratain and snorted. “I do not see the point of that little show. If we had ordered them, they would have leapt to our word. Instead, you set one of our Blessed to cajole them? I do not see the purpose.”

“It would have been easy, wouldn’t it? But I chose this path. It would be more… fitting that the humans led this campaign. And I do not doubt they would have jumped when we ordered. But if I ordered it, would not the others raise suspicions? And if any of the others, Kasteral, Torien, the others…. Would it not be seen as one attempting to rise above the others? We all exist in tenuous brotherhood, and we cannot jepordise that by having it seen that one of us has ambition over the others.”

Cen’Anvar nodded, listening carefully, drumming shell thick fingers on the railing. “So by making it look like the mortals have chosen this, there will be no competition between us. No childish squabbles over authority or prestige.”

Skarsaan turned their blank visor shining in starlight. “Exactly. And whilst we may advance ourselves, we can advance ourselves without seeming to overstep each other. We will work in unity, and we shall not fall to petty fights.”

Cen’Anvar laughed. “You are… so very Naive, Lord Perdition. So very hopeful,” the Word Bearer said, running his mailed fist over his cheeks, chuckling. “I shall hope our brothers do not take umbrage with your choices.”

\---

Eiratain was part way through the Arena’s halls, to his private chambers. As a Blessed Son, he had been gifted quarters by the Chosen above. He had cherished the privacy, the quiet, and when he entered, he set his sword and armour aside, resting back. The blood had dried on his cheeks and for a long moment, he wondered if he should bother washing it off. He dismissed the Vorax, which gave a growl of acknowledgement, and it stalked over, loping into the corridor to stand guard. He trusted it more than human guards. You couldn’t buy a gene-coded battle robot, or tempt it with ideals. An adept could subvert it, maybe… but Eiratain had a few contingencies for that.

When the door opened again, he glanced up, and Skarsaan loomed into the room, stooping to pass beneath the opening. “A good duel, Eiratain. I knew that you would win. And our ambitions will be realised,” the Astartes said. He was dressed in what the Astartes referred to as garrison deportment. Shoulder pads and primary plates removed, vambraces, cuirass and leg guards still on. It made them seem sleeker than they would normally be, but still commanded an inspiring presence. Eiratain was unnerved by Skarsaan. The other Astartes were readable, to a degree. They had ambitions. They were human, in an exaggerated, unnatural way. But Skarsaan…

It might simply have been the visage, that blank, steel face that made up Skarsaan’s head, but Eiratain knew that there was little known about the great Lord Perdition. Not even Legion or Chapter ancestry. Not even what his original face looked like.

And yet, they respected him above all others.

“Why did you choose me, as your Blessed, Lord Perdition?”

The room felt too small with the Astartes, felt too crowded. Felt cold and lifeless.

Skarsaan placed on mailed hand on Eiratain’s head and cocked his own, visored face.

“A curious question. But a good one. I appreciate the important questions like that, dear Blessed One. I chose you, because you have a healthy mix of passion, zeal and practicality. And you owe no allegiance to any one god. The Pantheon calls to you, in one unified voice,” the Lord said. 

“And why did you push so firmly for this campaign? Through me?”

The hand stroked through the short, copper hair that crowned Eiratain, and Skarsaan chuckled.

“For glory, for conquest. For a kingdom that should be ours, Eiratain. But I cannot be the one to lead. When Astartes lead, our ambitions go unchecked and we fall to infighting. Rest assured… victory must be a human endeavour.”

Eiratain stared up at that blank, steel visage. That unchanging face that simply offered nothing.

He prayed to every God that the Astartes was speaking the truth.

\----

Sayari had not expected a visit from the God’s Chosen, and he offered obeisance to Lord Skarsaan without hesitation. Skarsaan had always been respectful to his magi and his studies, and indeed had been a good debater, a good ear to bounce theory and warpcraft off. Indeed, Sayari wondered if Skarsaan had a touch of sorcery to him as well. Not that he could ever read the Astarte’s mind. 

 

If minds were rendered as metaphors, Eiratain’s had been a sea of ice and roiling waters. One might read the surface thoughts and catch but a glimpse, but beneath it all was something with depth. He was not a daemon, or a God’s Chosen, but there was something to the Blessed that Sayari was impressed by. Skarsaan…

Was like looking at a blank page. Utterly inscrutable.

Infuriating, Sayari thought, and returned their thoughts to Skarsaan’s presence.

“Lord Perdition, to what do I owe this honour?” the Sorceror asked, and placed another book upon its shelf, and chained it down. Smoke plumed from its pages in thick, blue puffs when the lock settled, and the binding rattled. “Have you come for another debate, or to discuss something?” Sayari said, a note of hope in his voice. 

“Sadly, not today, Lord Sorcerer,” Skarsaan said, his own disappointment shining through. He seemed to be examining many of the Sorcerer’s trinkets and oddities. A floating sphere made up of bands of gold took his fancy for a moment, and one clawed finger turned it, causing the metal rings to spin and sing. “I do wonder, what you said the Blessed Son when you froze time but for that single moment.”

Sayari stiffened, but he had played this game for a long time. There were no tells. He had not become Lord Sorcerer to be unsettled into spilling the truth at a strong accusation. What had, however, unsettled him, was that Skarsaan had noticed the lapse in time. Had noticed one of the more difficult sorceries to achieve. Worrisome. “Forgive me, Lord Perdition? Can you repeat yourself? I am certain you heard all that I said in the Arena to Eiratain.”

 

“Deception is a wonderful trait. As is a potent sorcerer’s skill. I have no doubt that they have given you this position,” Skarsaan said, and took one of the high backed thrones around the chamber. Windows were open to the plains outside the Arena, where one could see cities and townships, and industrial estates and sprawls. Some cities were, in the casual defiance of reality, floating, borne aloft by some gift from the Gods. Skarsaan seemed to regard the view.

“But it will not fool me. You said something to my Blessed. And yet, you hide it? Surely, if it is nothing, you would be open and honest. For me, such deceptions shall not go unnoticed. What. Did. You. Say.”

Each word seemed to be delivered like a hammer blow. Like the hard, punchy bark of a bolter on semi-auto. But Skarsaan’s voice never raised. Was never above that soft murmur. And Sayari realised that deception would not work.

It felt like being cornered by some predator, that he had thought himself a clever soul. He had not realised that Skarsaan would be able to detect such subtle, but potent sorcery. Even his own Chosen - a Sorcerer of Prospero, ancient and tempered - had not detected it…

“I… had spoken to him and said if I was at command of the fleet as well, advising and overseeing, I would add my own sorcerers and thralls to his armies,” the Sorcerer Lord admitted. It was safer, to simply admit it, and instead live to work on future plans.

Skarsaan laughed, and again, each bark of laughter was delivered with the staccato punching of a bolter. “Really? You… you wasted my time like this? That was all… Gods of the Warp, for one of our most intelligent, you have no insight,” Skarsaan said, and rose to his feet, still laughing. “Here I was expecting some true duplicity. Ahhh, Sayari… thank you for amusing me today.”

Skarsaan rose to his feet, a great rumbling as he pushed himself from the throne, and approached the Sorcerer Lord. “Do not presume to know better than me though. Do not presume to ever put anything past me. You are a Sorcerer Lord, yes. But I am a Lord Perdition. And if you ever dare to try and subvert this crusade for your own ends, I will make certain that you will never use such powers again. You will push the Lord Mortarch into supporting this campaign. That is my own demand, here and now, to you, Sayari…”

Sayari was tensed, fingers formed into fists, breathing heavily. “Yes… my lord.” 

The Astartes seemed to think for a moment, and then laughed again, as if remembering something that was at the least an amusement.

“Ah, yes. I still have that book I borrowed from last time. One of Erebus’ great tomes. What a droll way of writing he has. I shall have to return it to you,” he said, and turned to leave. “I shall have it returned to you later this evening. I should not be rude. Good evening, dear Lord Sorcerer.”

\---

Lord Alsarin had taken to his own studies, and was supervising Servitors and Savants tending to his alchemical solutions. Vast vats sat, some on great fires and bubbled, others were massive glass tanks, that occasionally seethed when new infusions were added. Alsarin did not care much for war.

True, it gathered him new materials, new concoctions, and it even furthered his devotion to the Plague Father when he deployed such gases and toxins to destroy an enemy force, or debilitate and infect populaces and sway them to his cause, but war…

It was such a distraction from such calming matters as alchemy. As Plague Craft. Even as he heaved and rattled in his leather bound robes and armatures, he smiled, and ran his hands over another sheaf. And Eiratain wanted his people to join this campaign.

Alsarin lifted a tiny, thimble like vial from a rack on the bench. The fluid within was a deep oceanic blue - some tincture that Sayari had once extracted for him. It was probably worth more than the wealth of some cities, and he had never really been ready to use it. But he was working on something potent. Something that would make the ancient and revered Life Eater look like a pale, merciful death sentence. Something that would transmit itself through warpspace, or perhaps a psionic virus that leapt from host to host by mere proximity.

That was a thought. When you factored in Daemonics, the warp, conventional vectors of infection could be ignored, and more esoteric pathways opened. He had once met with a Shadow Mechanicum Adept, who had revealed that he had crafted, with the help of Alsarin’s own savants, a scrap-code sequence that used warp fluctuations to induce a virus into people who had not been appropriately augmented. A genius motion - one that Alsarin had been so impressed by, he had tried to synthesise it again. With no success. A challenge he had chased for nearly two years.

Lord Mortarch glanced over his shoulder as he received an unexpected guest. He and Sayari had not been… close friends. Their deities were of opposing natures, and thus, they tolerated each other. It was simpler than sniping at each other. It did make private meetings between the two rare, and those encounters were often strained, unpleasant affairs.

He did offer a bow to Sayari - who returned it with the same respect - and he stood by the plague master’s podium. “Still working your wonders of corruption, Mortarch?” he asked, running a hand down the side of the bound book, noticing the vials. “Ah, still have not used that tincture I got for you? Saving it for a special use?”

The Mortarch chuckled. “Would you not like to know? No, I do not wish to waste what little I have been given… you are not normally one to visit my laboratory, Sayari. What brings you down here?” Alsarin asked, turning their hooded head about to the Sorcerer. Sayari seemed to be focusing on the actions of several Acolytes, lowering a writhing mass of warpspawn into one tank - and he did not even wince at the shrieks and screeching, the tendrils slapping at the boiling solution. 

As the noise died down, the Sorcerer turned to face his contemporary, and nodded. “I wanted to ask your opinion on Eiratain’s campaign? Do you think it would bear fruit?” The Sorcerer seemed pensive, hands interlinked. “I have been considering it most deeply.”

The Mortarch snorted, reaching for three vials, and ringing several bells. Savants scurried to him, as sure as hounds for a feeding bell, and took the glowing bottles. “Indeed, I thought you were one for prophecy and foresight. Do you not see anything with the God’s Gift?”

“It is not as simple as seeing one path, Alsarin,” the Sorcerer said, “I see some paths, and some winding ways, reflected and distorted and hard to see. There is no one, immutable future. It is made by the decisions of many souls.”

“And you cannot tell me that you see any future where we benefit?” Alsarin asked, careful to hide the sneer in his voice, as he catalogued the reagents he had just used.

“I think that there is, but…”

 

Sayari remembered Skarsaan’s warning. Remembered the unnerving visor that seemed to suddenly stand out in his memory.

“Unless we move with one purpose, united, there can be no victory. We would fall and wound the Boundary Stars. So we need your support, even if you are fearful of the future.”

“We? Are you committed already?” Alsarin asked, turning sharply. “I am amazed, that in the Arena, you showed such hesitance on this path. And now, you have changed your tune. I did not take you for one to change your mind so swiftly.”

There was a moment, and Sayari wondered if he should confide in the Mortarch…

I will make sure that you never use such powers again.

Words as powerful as bolter shots.

“I am speaking to let you know I will move in unity with the cause, but I would request that you lend your voice to the crusade,” Sayari said, and then he realised something. Something that should have been so very obvious from the start.

Skarsaan had his own agenda. Something that he personally would strong arm one of the four Lords over, and back a Blessed Son into a murder duel against the old commander.

The fact that the Lord Perdition had something greater behind this chilled the Sorcerer to his very core.


	6. Released

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flesh And Steel  
> First Launch  
> They Who Dare

She could feel the chill on her skin, feel the touch of the void upon her. The vastness stretched out around her, and she breathed, feeling the reactor beat in time with her heart… or had her heart matched its rhythm? Every other ship was no longer just a sensor symbol to her, but another bright light in this space. She could hear each of them - vox and data returns ringing off them like a tone from a tuning fork. And she-

“Captain, we’re green,” said Hamek, and Laurencia nodded. The voice of Hamek reminded her that there was a duty to fulfil. She hoped that the connection’s majesty and wonder would not fade… but she knew that getting enraptured in it had its dangers.

The implants were threaded along the back of her neck , just above her shoulders. They were… uncomfortable, though the Adepts had told her that the discomfort would pass in time and that each one would feel as natural as her own flesh. It also felt odd to have her hair shorn, baring her scalp, and she ran a palm over the smooth surface of her scalp, her white glove stark against her dark skin. Very odd indeed, and the healed tissue was still tender.

“Confirm, all crew on station. Harbour Slip A-Fourteen, we are requesting launch confirmation,” she said, remembering the neural command to broadcast. It took a moment for it to occur, but more time would mean that it would become instinctive. Avernice had been rather proud of his work - and he had even taken apart the Old Man’s throne to examine the Neural connections.

He had, sadly, found the cause. An ancient and distorted, piece of conductive wiring that had suddenly been the conduit for a small shock - enough to rupture brain vessels and sadly kill Demeir. 

“Is it not strange that something so small has led to a great man’s death?” the Adept asked, turning the wire about. “But Methodical is an old ship. It should have been serviced well before this. My apologies, Captain.”

The throne felt… different, now that she was seated as the Captain Proper. Felt right. Like she did belong.

She called out to her crew, nodded as they called back, each one ready. She knew they were. They all knew they were ready. They could feel it through the ship, through the neural links. But you had to ask, to hear them say it.

“This is Harbour Slip A-Fourteem. You are cleared, Methodical. Good Hunting and may the Emperor protect, Captain,” the Harbour officer responded. And they felt the maglocks disengage, the fuel lines and umbilicals retract and drew away.

In Harbour slips across the station, Ships of the Line and Escorts, arrayed like swords on a rack, emerged from their ports. Plasma drives burst into life, and they began to accelerate out of there. Adepts in the Harbour cheered, raising their hands in exultation as their work left the station, as they realised that each of their efforts had restored the fleet to full condition.

Methodical formed up with Stand And Deliver, and The Crucible, a formidable lead gun line, in front of Guide From Perdition, as a spear head. They were proud cruisers- all Lunar Class, prow heavy and laden with Macro Cannons, ready to engage.

Laurencia cracked her knuckles and nodded. “Alright crew. Let’s do the fleet proud. The Emperor’s watching. Accelerate to system Mandeville point.”

\-----

 

Where Brave Souls Tread had been hauled into one of the major slips. Rad-cleanser crews had worked to sanitise the decks, clear the hull and compartments, and remove the ruptured reactor parts. In a way, the proud Inquisitorial Vessel had been dead upon arrival, and they were working upon a corpse. It would likely be years before the ship was fully restored and sanctified. Many of its crew had died to void exposure, others to radiation sickness.

Al Rahim had survived, in post surgical recuperation, in chemically induced catatonia. Til she had fully healed, to spare her from pain, Avernice had explained to Arsene and the Captains. And that had left the Hetman in a rather awkward position. Technically, he was meant to guard and protect the Inquisitor from harm… but he also felt he had a duty to fulfil her mission whilst she could not.

He could not even ask her through her telepathy, since as she slept, he could not reach her.

So he had made the choice. The remaining guards would be with her at all times, til such time as she was healthy and capable again. He’d carry her authority - something she had granted him before the surgery with Avernice, Varienii and several fleet officers as witness - and he’d travel with the Patrol fleet on the mission, to make sure they would follow his lead. Besides, he had been to the Boundary Stars. He’d be necessary. Necessary to ensure the fleet knew that this was still an Inquisitorial operation.

He had to admit, the Guide From Perdition was a very similar vessel to Brave Souls, and he found himself warming to its crew rather swiftly. His manner, disarming and honest, meant Varienii tolerated him with a minimum of fuss, and the two debated the best way to go about spreading the word of the danger.

“We could contact every fleet, have them learn of it, and use those voices to convince Sector command. Whilst it’d be the longest choice, it’d be easy for us to convince each Commodore in turn and rally them to direct resources to this endeavour,” Varienii said. “But… that could take months to simply approach each fleet, let alone get them all convinced.”

“That’s why we need to head back into the Boundary. If we can acquire clear sensor readings and recordings of a threat, there’d be no need to convince the Patrol Fleets. Sector Command would have to acknowledge the truth. Then we could work on a defensive strategy,” Arsene had said, taking a glass from a servitor who was serving at the officer’s mess. The Amasec was not quite the vintages he had grown accustomed to on the Inquisitor’s vessel, but he could not refuse a fine drink. “If we’re quick, and quiet, we can deploy into the Boundary, using sensor drones, and scout the sectors the Inquisitor has marked. And then, using those intelligence scans, we’ll be able to determine the true scale of the threat.”

Varienii hefted his own glass, and sniffed a little. “Presuming that it is an invasion fleet, and not just a defensive picket you encountered. If Chaos holds its worlds like we do, I have no doubt that your ship could have stumbled upon a fleet by happenstance. But we will see.”

Most of the officers were contriving to not listen, not pry into business that might have been above their station. They were nervous, knowing that they should not put their opinions in the Commodore’s business. He was a prickly sort when it came to that.

Arsene placed his beaker down - hard enough to rattle on the table- , wiped the back of his hand across his lips, shifting in his seat. He squared up a little to better face the officer. He blinked a few times, as if measuring the Commodore, and he drummed his fingers on the table. “We’re not some frightful, new ship crew, sir. We are the Inquisition. We wouldn’t just blindly piss ourselves and scream that we’ve found a threat of invasion.”

Pressing the idea that the Commodore would not want to be implied to be insulting the Inquisition was a strong thing to use, and Arsene wondered how good at verbal sparring the old officer was. Varienii simply regarded him, like an old hound.

“I am not doubting the Inquisition’s skills or capabilities, nor that of its agents. You’re our… guardians in the dark. But you must remember. My duty to the Imperium means I cannot overstep myself. If the Sector command does not permit me to travel the Boundary Stars, I cannot do so. I would need your Inquisitor’s direct command. Not simply her authority through you, but her actual command. Understood?”

Arsene bit back a retort, masking it from sight by taking a sip from his glass, and drummed his fingers on the table. “Understood. But I can advise you heavily on what the Inquisition would expect. Just because I’m not the Inquisitor, doesn’t mean that you can’t expect to have the Ordos follow up on our operation, understood?”

The Commodore laughed, sitting back and nodding. “Of course I do, Hetman. But they can take it up with Sector command, I imagine,” he said. “But I will heed your words, Hetman. I trust you.”

It was a simple placation and honestly, Arsene could only nod. He sat there, looking out over the tactical hololith, and sighing. “I really hope you’re the right one here, Varienii. I really, really do.”

The Commodore shrugged. “If they want a fight, we patrol fleets ill the heretic bastards a fight they won’t forget. First Officer! How long til we begin the warp jump?”

An officer who had to make an effort to seem to not be listening, jumped up. “Staff says we should be ready to proceed in ten minutes.”

\----

The ships formed into their appropriate groupings, subtle formations meant to provide the broadest and most comprehensive defensive fielding, but far enough apart for travel so that each ship did not interfere with each other’s drive function. Each ship, in turn, engaged the arcane mechanisms of their Immaterium Drives.

In oubliettes in each Ship’s bridge, a Navigator began the arduous and nigh impossible task of coaxing the ship into the Immaterium and steer it by the Light of the Astronomicon. 

Methodical’s Navigator, an elderly woman by the name of Mariena, stirred in a fluid filled cradle. She was a wretched looking thing, emaciated and thin, but valued, oh so valued. They had trusted her for nearly sixty years to guide this ship through the Sea of Souls, and she had never failed them. She could feel the strange, untested nature of their new captain, a softness that ran through the ship’s spirit into her own domain…

Whilst Laurencia had to make sure that the drive functioned, the shields were raised and the Geller Field was intact, Mariena, lonely and quiet, had to do the vastly more esoteric job of making sure the ship was not swept away into the Warp.

She knew how to guide and steer the ship, to manage its tonnage and keep it straight, keep it on track.And she knew how to keep her ship in line with the rest of the fleet.

Each ship began to gleam and crackle, crimson and gold lightning cresting the spires and hulls. Eventually, the spars and forks of energy met and began to tear open the emptiness of space, revealing uneven, ragged wounds, through which Hell could be seen…

And in defiance of all rationale and logic, that such a hell should never be delved into, the fleet dived into the Warp, buffeted by the freakish energies, Geller fields shaking and gleaming, turning aside all the nebulous snares of the warp. Daemons laughed against the protection, sliding over it like water over a smooth stone.

And Mariena smiled. This was her domain now. This was where she flew. Even in a tank that kept her suspended on the brink of reality, this was where she had command. In the distance, the whispering returned, like the hiss of seawater through smooth stones. She ignored it, focusing on the warm, distant light of the Throneworld. Here, in the very yawning maw of hell, she felt closest to the Emperor.

Now to do her “Damned Job.”

\---

Laurencia watched the sensors change from Real Space Effective, to Warp Space Effective. They read the massive energy readings, coiling and writhing around the ship, hammering on its shields and wards ferociously, and the Warp guided them along in the torrents that made up its wake.

It was also the first Warp she had endured as a linked Captain upon her ship. She could taste ash on her tongue, feel a strange pressure behind her eyes as they translated. There was a tightness in her gut, a strange tension. As if the ship itself dreaded the journey. Had Demeir felt this with every warp jump? Had he felt it whenever they mentioned the Immaterium, or began the countdown? That knot of anxiety, that welled up in her stomach..

“Status?” she asked, wanting to hear the voices of her crew, just for a moment, and she nodded as Gwyn spoke up. The fast speech of her old friend made her smile.

“Geller Field is green. Drives are all functional - that engine fuel line is showing no sign of damage, so that’s good. Sensors are reading as normal in Warp Space. We are operating at optimal capacities, Captain!” she called back, the Master of Detection smiling. “We are enacting ship translation protocols, and all exterior deck shutters have been engaged. Estimated time of travel to next system is…. Six days, twelve hours. If the Navigator holds up.”

“I assure you, Gwynny, that I can do my damned job quite well,” Mariena’s voice echoed about the chamber, and that broke the tension so blessedly. Laurencia laughed, and the rest of the crew allowed themselves a smile. “Just make sure my ship’s engines and shields work as best they can.”

“We’ll keep the Enginseers on task. Hamek, order all crew to the standard celebration. One round of Amasec to all crew, then regular day and night cycles to commence. A toast to my first translation,” Laurencia smiled. It was, as Mariena had said, now her ship. Laurencia had so little control. All ships were eventually at the mercy of their Navigators. And Mariena was a fine one indeed.

Hamek smiled, and leaned into the vox horn on the control console of the ship. “To all rated crew, we have successfully entered Immaterium Space without mishap. You are permitted a half hour respite, and a single dram ration of amasec. The Emperor Protects, and pray that he’ll guide us through the Void.”

\---

Their first destination would rendezvous them with another patrol fleet, one of a dozen scouting the sector. Varienii had hailed their Commodore, and with Arsene’s authority, passed on all the details the Inquisition could spare. The other patrol fleet Commodore - a woman of Cadian descent by the name of Misari - had seemed perturbed by the news, had analysed it, and agreed with the Commodore and Arsene that this news had to be spread to the other fleets and eventually up to Sector command. 

Their patrol done, the message delivered, Varienii ordered his fleet into a second jump. Misari had bade them farewell, warned Varienii about an increase in raider attacks on the frontier systems, and continued her patrol route, promising that any fleet or system that she passed would receive the information.

And this was the routine for nearly a month.

Laurencia kept her crew running drills and checks - more to keep her sharp and run her through scenarios to remind her of how the system worked than anything - and she breathed out. The thought of a full scale void invasion occurring in her lifetime left her uneasy. She had lived a life that she had so far only seen small raiding parties, seen only that.

But the thought of seeing a full blown void war… well, that’d be something she’d push herself and her crew to survive through it all.

\----

After a month, Arsene was pacing in the Commodore’s lodgings, irritation plain on his face. “We’re not operating fast enough. The information isn’t spread far enough. Commodore, we need more than this,” the Hetman said, champing down on some chewing tobacco. It seemed to steady his nerves, as if the absence of his Inquisitor had left him unsettled. He had been slowly getting more impatient.

Varienii simply continued writing, detailing the minutiae of the Patrol Fleet’s journeys, the systems scouted, the deficits of fuel and repair resources, and the fleets encountered, to be entered into the Guide From Perdition’s data canisters and Black Boxes. He nodded to Arsene, and clicked the fountain pen’s lid closed, sliding it into his desk drawers - a rare piece of rich darkwood and mother of pearl inlay - and placed his hands on the blotting board.

“Arsene, I understand your concern, but unless I get clearance to enter the Boundary, my fleet will be moving along its patrol lines as demanded of me by my commanders,” he said, reaching into one cabinet to pull out a crystal cut bottle and two glasses. “I am, of course, sending them the details, and the various positions that we are in…. And if I am honest, Hetman, I myself wish to see what lies beyond those stars.”

Arsene looked at him, and sat down - palming the tobacco into a tissue, and tossing the little bundle into a waste bin, and took the drink. Varienii wondered what sort of creature he was to earn a place in an Inquisitor’s warband… and as head of her security. He was… uncouth, uncultured, and moved with a swagger that you saw on hired guns. The crew had warmed to him oddly enough, though many still feared the Inquisitor’s token on his coat lapel. But his eyes betrayed a calculating gaze, the sort that measured everything.

The only time Varienii had seen eyes like that was on a gun servitor in active status. And it chilled him somewhat. All the vice and tattoos… maybe they were a holdover, bad habits from a bad life… or they were one hell of a sophisticated act. He snorted, and supped his amasec, as Arsene spoke.

“So… you’re considering the Inquisitor’s side of the argument? That we need to move the fleet into raiding territories?” he asked, tentatively, like a man testing water. Varienii smiled a little.

“Yes. I am. I’ve run fleets in combat, and fleets in patrols for decades, Arsene,” he said, savouring the amasec’s burn for a moment, and glanced up at the ceiling. The blank metal above had been covered in a mural of the stars, overlapping lines and diagrams above. It had been something he had installed when he had taken fleet command. He wondered if he’d ever achieve a higher station… he was old enough, older than most. Perhaps it was simply the product of a life of safer commands, he mused.

“My intention is to try and raise some…. Fear on this matter. Make the Sector a little fearful. It’s a wonderful motivator,” Varienii said. “If word spreads like this, then when I approach Sector Command, then they’ll either have heard and mobilised the primary fleets… or they’ll order raids into the Boundary stars in order to recover concrete intelligence. Even run sabotage operations. I’m working with you, Arsene.”

The Inquisitorial agent palmed at his face for a moment, and then lifted the drink. “And you… didn’t think to say that at first?” Arsene said, after downing most of his amasec. And Varienii laughed.

“Because seeing you pace constantly was hilarious,” the commodore said, and watched Arsene’s expression drop into aggravation.


	7. Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tired Refrain  
> Wonders  
> The Storm Front

It was another month til the message came through. Eventually, the word must have gotten around enough, spread by a half dozen patrol fleets, and signalled by Harbour Master Avernice. It must have reached someone important and competent and possessed of some degree of foresight. Because within a week, the Astropaths of the fleet were stirring. In Laurencia’s bridge, down one of the branching corridors, was the Astropath’s chambers, and the old, wavering psyker was murmuring. 

Astrotelepathy was a difficult science to understand - especially given how impossible psionics was to comprehend to the ungifted - and it seemed to vary. Some psykers gave their responses in voice, acting as mouthpieces for distant speakers. Others scrawled the information on parchment, in frantic scribbles and regurgitation. And some, with enough connections to the Mechanicus, would simply be augmented to display their signals on view screens as flickering images.

The signal, however, was simple. There was no need for complexity.

The Sector Admiralty calls you. Return to Sector Command.

Arsene had been crowing about this. He had taken this to be a sign that the Admiralty was taking this seriously, and seemed jubilant. The entire fleet had seemed to be abuzz with energy, with the feeling of finally doing something. They had taken in a new series of Warp Escorts, to fulfil lost ships, and the frigates found themselves a little out of sync with the fleet, not quite knowing what the seeming excitement was about. It took some quick communications between various vox officers for those new crews to finally understand,

Varienii had met the news with a snort. He seemed to have finally tired of the little charade , glad it was over and done with, directing his fleet onwards, towards one of the Admiralty’s stations. There was a central naval station for the Sector, and then sub branches, to relay commands from the highest offices through appropriate channels. The mightiest of Sector command could not spend their time coordinating every last element of their fleets. Thus delegated officers and aides would do the job for them.

And that meant it took a little longer for orders to reach their destination, but it meant that the command could direct their attentions across much broader reaches.

It took a week’s Warp Travel, exhausting and tiresome and nauseating. 

 

The station was built in the standard Imperial style, with great, sweeping arches, the grandeur of angels and saints looking out against the stars, guarding the station from danger and heresy. There were even Astartes immortalised on its turreted walls, hands outstretched, watching in silent vigil.

Methodical had to maintain a certain distance from the Station, far enough away its own gravitics and inertials would not be affected by the macrostructure.

Laurencia’s pinnace - a sleek, arrowhead ship - was prepped to carry her and Hamek to the station, to listen to a classified briefing. She had not been privy to these sorts of encounters, and knew that it’d be best to follow the direction of the Commodore in talking with senior admiralty.

A pair of armsmen, in their mustard yellow uniforms and gloss black body armour were her escorts, equipped with auto-carbines, saluted her, as she strode aboard the personal shuttle, and took her seat. Hamek, carrying a hard case and portable cogitator set, sat opposite her, seeming to be absolutely at ease. He had done this sort of thing before, under Demeir’s command, and he simply kept sat back. 

“Just don’t worry about being contributing to this discussion, unless Varienii asks the captains to back up the proposal,” the first officer said, brushing his sleeves down. “And we all know what the proposal demands so there is no issue there.”

“I’m not worried, Hamek,” she said, checking the fit of her gloves, smoothing down a crease with her thumb. “I assure you. I’ll just keep to the plan.”

“Oh, good. I just was concerned you were unsettled,” Hamek said, smiling a little, thin and sly. And Laurencia shook her head, looking at him

Do I look worried? Do I look nervous and anxious and unprepared for this? Because I damn well am. I am in the deep end with the Sector Admiralty. 

“I don’t look unsettled, Hamek. It’d be unbecoming of me if that were the case,” she said, allowing a haughty look to pass over her expression, and she leaned back, “And it would be inappropriate for an officer to suggest his captain looked at all unsettled.”

The first officer chuckled and leaned back, taking a small glass of amasec that the ship servitor had brought up to them.

“Perish the thought, Captain.”

\----

Sector Command was a different platform entirely to the Harbour. It was a much grander structure, made more like a mausoleum and cathedral, worshipping the holiness of the Void. The great landing platforms could support a flotilla of pinnaces, landers and lifters. Whereas the docks of the Harbour were a series of broad, hollow vaults, these were massive, towering spaces, with galleries for lighters to land on. Massive atmosphere preservation fields thrummed and shivered at the end of the great space, and others divided it so that a failure of the external fields would not simply vent each compartment to the void.

It smelt of the strange, hard bleached smell of Void Shields and hard vacuum, underlined by the strange sweet reek of petrochemical fuels. Laurencia had rarely seen a space so… open. She was used to the narrow confines of ship corridors and station berths. This was something close to the open plains of a world… and she could barely remember her life on a planet, before labour gangs had taken her slum and press ganged it into service.

She shook off the memory, walking with Hamek, seeing the other Captains and First Officers of the fleets moving towards the signalled exit path. She nodded to the ones she knew, and took her place - at the back, as the political hierarchies dictated she stand towards the back. A newcomer, afterall.

She did not mind. It at least enabled her to get a good look about the spaces they were entering, noting the captains and officers. There were subtle variations in uniform, the shapes of aquilas and the forms of frogging that gave away their ship status and station. She smiled, noticing one captain who wore a broad, bicorn hat. She had her long coat, her plain crimson uniform, with a few bars of gold thread frogging. Altogether, a far simpler look.

It felt vastly different from the arrival in the Harbour, as armsmen of Sector Command - in seagreen plate armour and grey stormcoats- guided them to the amphitheatre where they’d debate and be briefed.

And Laurencia felt a strange rush, as she took her seat at the tactical table. Hamek settled beside her, flipping the clasps of the case, and thumbed on the cogitator and dataslate, a pantomime echoed by his fellow first officers. Someone lit a lho stick, and they all murmured as they waited for Sector Command to answer. There were four Commodores and sixteen Captains, an almost equal number of First Officers surrounding them, and there were cliques and social circles emerging, small groups of captains leaning in. It was almost always formed from within their patrol fleets, but sometimes, old friends would lean across to greet a face they had not seen in years. Laurencia simply listened to her own fleet officers talk very softly to each other, with Varienii leaning on the table, fingers raised together. Arsene was sat beside him, seemingly a little out of place amongst the fleet officers and admiralty board.

And the hololiths flickered on. Three hazy, half formed silhouettes began to flash on the platforms, forming three of the most powerful people in the Sector. An Admiral, a Vice Admiral and a Rear Admiral. 

Admiral Ortarias was seated, his coat worn like a cloak over his shoulders. Under it, an augmetic frame kept his old body upright, braced and steady. He had in his holographic fingers a data slate, and glared up from the slate to the room.

An officer of the Command shouted. “Rise to attention!”

Everyone rose with a scuffing of chairs and clammer of boots, and everyone rose to their feet, placing their hands to their chest in the salute of the Aquila. After a moment, Ortarias gestured for them to stand at ease, then to be seated. Servitors brought out refreshments and sweat meets, so that the captains and officers were made comfortable.

“These reports have been brought to the Admiralty have been disquieting,” he began, and nodded to his two subordinate commanders. “They paint a picture that is quite… alarming and I wish to verify the facts. This report is primarily - and I do not doubt the source- based upon information acquired from the Inquisition. We respect the Holy Ordos. We respect their mandate, their necessity and their authority,” he said. His voice was hoarse. Rumour was he’d need an augmetic voice box soon enough, but for now, his own voice could still hold authority.

“It is not, however, verified or particularly concrete. There are gaps and conjecture. It needs significant backing from the fleet. And so far, I cannot say that elicits enough confidence from me to authorise mobilisation of any battlefleet elements from the Sector to the frontier systems.”

The announcement did not seem to be particularly pleasing to Arsene, who breathed out softly, and laid his palms flat upon the table. He was listening, trying to restrain himself. Inquisitorial authority by proxy did not mean he could just shout out at the table. There was around the table a murmur, curiosity, wondering if censure would follow for spreading such alarmist notions.

Ortarias watched the room, and continued. “However. Any threat to our holdings must be taken seriously, and considered. Traitors, Xenos and Renegades will be denied,” he said, “Thus I am authorising excursions into the Boundary Stars Region in order to determine the reality nature of the threat arrayed before us. If it turns out to be little more than a raiding group, the patrol fleets will be able to hold against it as they have always done. But if the Inquisitor’s findings are true…”

He cast a glance up. “Ladies and gentlemen. This might be the biggest threat the Sector will have faced in centuries. Thus, as much as I would prefer to not have to divert material and fleets from their appointed positions, I will mobilise what is necessary to protect the Imperium and all its fiefdoms.”

And that was as good as Varienii wanted, and would be as good as he got. But he kept listening, even as Arsene’s expression turned to something like triumph, as Ortarias gave the floor to Vice Admiral Kora.

She was not as obviously old as her contemporary, but she had the same poise, the same confidence. Half her face was a static porcelain, set in flush against her real face, and its false eye stared out at them. 

“Commodore Varienii. You have been operating with the Inquisition to spread the word of this invasion,” she said, sharp voiced, reading from a data slate. “As such, responsibility for this falls on you. You will be in nominal command of this venture.”

Varienii rose up, and Laurencia wondered what the other Commodores thought. He had been singled out for this, purely out of luck. He had been the voice to hear the Inquisition, and maybe some would presume him… ghoulish, or opportunistic. Some might view him as hunting above his station.

Politics, she mused, and watched. She had to learn this dangerous dance now.

Varienii smiled. “I was simply lucky to be where the Inqusition ran to. Hetman Arsene here would agree with me. I am heartened that the Admiralty Board has seen fit to commence a investigations in the face of the Inquisition’s findings. And when you say responsibility, may I ask what you mean by that?”

Kora smiled, the flesh half of her face crinkling in an almost kindly smile.

“You will command the Expeditionary Fleet… and if it turns out your words and actions yield nothing, you will stand down from command of your fleet. Afterall, you would have wasted time and resources and spread fear of a heretic force. That should be reflected upon.”

Laurencia suddenly realised the real weight of politics here, realised what was at stake. Varienii had taken a gamble on the side of the Inquisition. Doubtless he’d earn favour and reputation if his side was proven right. If wrong, the Admiralty would have to make an example of incompetence. She was rather taken aback. Losing his command was a significant risk, but Varienii knew how this went. “Should my service be found wanting, I accept that punishment. But I am on the frontier with my brothers and sisters in these fleets. We know the realities of the situation here,” he said. “We will bring back evidence.”

Kora nodded, and said very softly, “we shall see. Rear Admiral Jory, do you have anything to add?”

The Rear Admiral, who had been sat in his throne, one leg crossed over the other and a look of idle boredom on his face, shook his head. “No. Nothing that you have both already said. Let them get on their way and deal with this. There are more pressing issues to deal with.”

“So that is that. There will be no debate. Briefing materials have been prepped and will be delivered to your first officers. Prepare yourselves and go with the Emperor’s Blessing,” Kora said, and made the sign of the aquila, fingers overlapping her chest. And every officer returned the gesture to her, before the Hololiths flickered out.

And immediately the room burst into argument.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch, and the calm and quiet was overturned. There were debates, and rages, as captains demanded that they instead debate who would lead the fleets. Some were trying to make cases for their own commodores to lead, some demanding it be a joint effort, overseen by committee, or at least having something to moderate the control he had. Varienii - to his credit - was simply trying to keep everyone from breaking down into a full on shouting match, saying that he’d not be a unilateral leader, but when your voice is being drowned out by twenty contrary ones, it is hard to make yourself heard, or have your points be heard.

Arsene was grinning at the display, leaning back and smiling at Laurencia. “Throne above, it’s like a scholam when the tutor leaves the room,” he said, taking a lho stick from a case - even offering one to Laurencia, who declined - and he lit it off a blocky little lighter. “This is a mess already.”

Laurencia wished she could share in the Inquisitorial agent’s bleak humour. But this was a bad look for what should have been a united front for the fleet.

\---  
It took nearly two hours of each Commodore rising and giving their view upon the matter, after Varienii had managed to quell some of the more vocal accusations, and listening to each of the officers in turn was taking time. Already they had started to at least reach an agreement. Varienii would not have unilateral command.

“I was expecting the Admiralty board to actually make this a debate, instead of just throwing the order out there. I was steeling myself to have to argue alongside the Captain there,” Laurencia admitted to Hamek, who was settling their notes together. To their left, at the centre of the table, Varienii, Arsene and the other Commodores were finally arriving at some agreements. Servitors had rolled out papersheaf star charts and brought thick wax pencils for the officers to make notes. Most of the Captains loitered near their Commodores, seeming withdrawn amongst their own crews.

“I think that the Admiralty board has other things to focus on. There are many wars out there, and their attentions probably have to be upon wars that are happening at the present. They probably wish to keep themselves on the ‘important’ conflicts,” the first officer said, and listened to another Captain start trying to list out the requisitions they’d need for such operations, before others began to add and shout and and overrun each other.


	8. Foundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prized Iron  
> Irrefutable  
> The Costs Between

The war effort had begun. It began with Demagogues in the street, rallying the crowds. They stirred anti-Imperial sentiment easily. It wasn’t a hard thing, to remember the words of your forebears, about an Empire that had abandoned them out on the cold, raw edges of the galaxy. They had been left behind by the Imperium that had deemed them worthless. 

Wouldn’t any soul cling to something else? 

So the Boundary Star’s heathen inhabitants found themselves martialing, some working in great foundries, others in fabrication plants, others in fields and battery farms. Some volunteered for the hazardous duties of Iconographers and Sigilists, to mark and sanctify the weapons and raiments of war. 

To be a Sigilist was perhaps one of the more difficult paths to tread in the Worlds of Chaos, aside from a Caller Of The Neverborn. They were brought to sanctified temples, brought to darkened rooms, and their eyes removed, by surgery and crude ritual. In their place, Sayari’s adepts and magi replaced them with bands of chromed silver, etched and marked. If the Sigilists survived, then the more draining phases of the procedure would begin.

Psionic and Cerebral engram machines would be applied, to the temples, spine and sealed eyes, and into the mind of each of these Sigilist was fed a constant stream of the Convocations of The Four, overwriting portions of their own minds, erasing identity and personality to allow the powerful runes of the Gods to be known and repeated.

This of course would eventually burn the Sigilists out, their minds becoming a nonsense mess of repeated runes and marks. It was a fate that many considered to be a form of rapture, as worry and anxiety gave way to nothing but a compulsion to mark and engrave and ink. Of course, it was a shame to have to eventually replace them, but sacrifices were made in war.

Eiratain was not present for any of the ceremonies or demagoguery. He had been delegating. Command was a difficult thing. Whilst all Four Lords had come together to offer their Blessing- Skarsaan lurking in the shadows of the Gallery above with his brethren - dividing the Boundary’s armies into usable blocks, regimenting training forces and armament distribution was starting to wear his patience thin. Adjudicators of the Shadow Mechanicum - or as they called themselves, The Enlightened - had been giving him numbers and figures. A stick thin thing in robes of gold and black was gesturing to a plastek cased screen unit for him, as he poured over a Sector star chart. He glanced at the glow of the slate, and then looked up at the Adept. “I cannot read Techna-Lingua,” he said tersely.

“The munition numbers desired by Lady Palasus are taxing our resources and manufacturing limits, Blessed Lord,” the Adjudicator said - its voice a chatter of harmonics. It sounded, to Eiratain’s ears at least, like a music box being turned when the Adept spoke. He didn’t mention this to the Adept. It was irrelevant. He had not asked the Adept’s name for the same reason.

“Lady Palasus and her Court of Bronze have given you the estimates to outfit our armies. It is not a matter of taxing a system,Adept-Adjudicator. You have your targets, and they must be met,” the Warlord said, scribing a note onto his data slate about one dockyard.

Again, the Adjudicator make a blurting noise, and the servo limb that hoisted the data slate gestured again, intruding into Eiratain’s view of his own work. “Again, my Overseers wish to remind you: These numbers are unfeasible. They require more workers, more manufacturing plants, more raw resources to be refined. You are making unrealistic demands of the Enlightened, given our place in the Boundary,” the adept said.

Eiratain breathed in softly, running his hands over the velvet soft surface of the old starchart - a gift from the Word Bearer Cen An’var, something that had been something loaned from the Legion - and calmed himself. He reminded himself that he had little knowledge of how exactly the Enlightened worked, or of what their limitations were. They were masters of their work, but he had to acknowledge that he did not appreciate their difficulties.

“Are there solutions to this problem beyond simply pushing the timetable back?” he asked, setting his stylus down, as other worthies waited to petition him. A minotaur headed officer of Palasus’ court was snorting, eager to make his claim for a command. Some shamble-thing of dusky robes and clicking mechanisms was waiting behind him, their purpose unknown… and behind them both was Lady Vaidt of Excess’ pet champion.

Eiratain knew they’d only be the first he’d hear from the ranks of the armies they were raising. True, each of the Four Lords had courts and militants dedicated to their causes, but even the four bound together would not be a strong enough force. So he marshalled the citizens that were riled up, conscripted them and began to divide them amongst the commanders. That had gone… as well as he had feared. There had already been claims of favouritism, of the Blessed Lord giving more followers, more munitions, more anything to one god over the other. And he had ground his teeth in frustration whilst Lord Skarsaan had simply stood in silence.

Skarsaan had not deigned to interfere. He said that if he interfered so openly, that would draw contention from his Brother Astartes. He was a sponsor to Eiratain, nothing more. And if that was compromised, the entire war would end before they had started it. The Astartes would not stand for any one of them attempting to push themselves further. Even Skarsaan’s rank of Lord of Perdition, who unified them all, was contentious at the best of times.

He drew himself back to the present, as the Adjudicator interrupted his train of thought. “If you were to expand the mining, land and conscription rites of the Enlightened to a much vaster swathe, and relax the Exclusion Zones in certain systems of the Boundary Stars and the Salient System, we could start harvesting operations to a greater degree. We also wish to start salvage operations in-”

Eiratain held up a hand - though the adept kept speaking even whilst bade to silence. “I will bring these concerns before the Four and the Legionaries. If I assure you that we will fulfil some of these requests, can you guarantee that you will meet our targets within Timetable?”

Vaidt’s pet was watching with a curious expression on their face, arms crossed, waiting to be seen to. It was distracting Eiratain a little, as he realised the pale, fey thing was smiling. But he returned his attention to the Adjudicator.

“... We can offer at least an eighty five percent fulfilment ratio on all requisition orders within the timetable,” the Adjudicator admitted. “Unless you wished to push the entire population of the Boundary Stars to work in this Crusade.”

Eiratain made a face. “A difficult proposition. We’ll consider expanding Servitor programs to make up for insufficient worker gangs. Some of our raiding ships should return with sufficient captures and material to start this process. Thankfully, one of Vaidt’s worthies is here, and she has significant say in what Zones exclude the Mechanicus, and will no doubt be able to assist. Have a pleasant day, Adjudicator. I must attend to others now.”

The Adept did not seem satisfied with this. The concessions were enough to continue the Enlightened’s support, but they used the fact they were the only ones who could provide them with the technological knowledge to wrangle what they could out of the Boundary Stars’ inhabitants. Eiratain had privately suggested to Skarsaan that the establishment of a secretive collegia to start accruing Mechanicum secrets and teaching competing factions the means and secrets of the Motive Force. Skarsaan had said considered it briefly but offered nothing concrete. He wouldn’t voice support or opposition to it, but he considered it.

The sun set as Eiratain met with the last of the staff that had been sent to him, the glowering light silhouetting the tall, ostentatious throne - a gift from Palasus, who had said that no Warlord should content themselves with a stool when they could take a grander seat. Eiratain had rolled their eyes at it, but accepted the gift, and endured the stiff edges of mahogany without complaint. 

Vaidt’s Champion had taken a seat in the apartments that Eiratain had taken as his war office. It allowed him to remain safely guarded by Servitors, Automata and his own officers, and yet he could be close to the Four and their worthies to allow them swift communications. Vaidt’s Champion waited, curtseying the hem of their long coat about their legs as they chose to wait out the other petitioners that had come to speak. 

The Champion - known to their followers as the Monarch Of Swords,- was a beautiful creature, in the way a fine doll or sculpture was. Fine cheeked, bright eyed, and haughty of features, they moved without a sound. They had long, angular limbs, as if all fat had been trimmed from their frame, and whatever life they had lived had sculpted them into a lithe predator. The only things that hinted at their change from humanity were the curling horns that swelled from their brow, and the bright, feline eyes that seeming so piercing.

“Greetings, Lord Eiratain,” the creature said, its voice low and soft. “We have not had the joy of meeting before. I am Terecia,” they said, and held out one gloved hand. The other remained on the sleek hilt of their sabre.

Eiratain took the hand, squeezed it firmly, and let it go. “Thank you, Terecia. Has Lady Vaidt sent you to petition something from me? I admit, I thought becoming a Warlord would mean I would be… fighting more. Not exactly playing Politician,” he said, as a joke.

Terecia smiled thinly, and gently eased back one of the chairs, seating themselves upon it, laying one leg atop the other as if they were a mannequin for an artist’s considerations. “Yes, in fact, she has. There are concerns about material disposition, about personnel… which you have no doubt heard from every other representative who has come through that door. There’s a data slate here, with it all on, to review at your leisure.”

Eiratain breathed out a sigh, glad that at least he’d be able to deal with this at a reasonable pace as opposed to dealing with arrogant souls constantly pushing his patience. Swaratzhund, the Vorax Pattern Automata that had been gifted to Eiratain from the Enlightened, was hunched to the side of the room. Its shell was a polished, deep sea green, with the gun mounts mounted in brass cradles. It had been a loyal guard here, scanning everyone that entered, and kept its rotor cannons and lightning gun ready to fire. Eiratain would regret the mess it would make if it did. But he cherished its predatory nature, and the ceaseless vigil it maintained. 

It, for some reason, did not lay its sights upon Terecia. That disquieted Eiratain, but he did not allow it to show, instead glancing up from the prose that Vaidt would pretend were her concerns about the approaching war. The Lady of Excess might have been a great many talents… but her writing was far, far too flowery. 

“There is an annotated version of her demands loaded into the slate,” Terecia said, in an attempt to seem disarming, charming and helpful. Eiratain snorted, and the Vorax drone rotated gently, regarding the noise, scanning it. Seemingly satisfied that nothing was amiss, its cannons cycled down, and it went quiet once more. The bulbous sensor node ticked and whirred, and sometimes aim-beams flashed across the room, hunting. 

“Did I say anything to indicate I couldn’t read it?” Eiratain asked, and was surprised when the fey champion laughed again, and gestured, one hand still on the sabre hilt. A duellist’s affectation, a posture. All confidence and swagger, and yet Eiratain realised that he had never seen Vaidt’s champion duel before. Which meant he couldn’t judge purely off that swagger.

“I have much love for Lady Vaidt. She is a grand avatar to excess, and Slaanesh cherishes her deeply. Her servants are valued, and we are grateful that she is our representative… Her prose is, however… a rather regrettable thing. But do not ask me to say more.”

Eiratain did not find himself warming to Terecia’s manner. It was a calculated facade, he felt. It was meant to paint the champion as a flamboyant, affable dandy. It was a display that must have hidden something, and Eiratain kept an eye on the champion. “I see. Well, if that is all, good Monarch of Swords, then I will bid you a good evening.”

There was a moment and Terecia cocked an eyebrow. The Slaaneshii champion leaned back, taking the chair onto two legs, and they seemed to be thinking. “There has been something that I have been wondering. About where this campaign was started,” Terecia said, and checked the hem of their glove. “You see, I heard Lord Skarsaan urged you to take the Mantle of Warlord. If so, why did Skarsaan wish to see this begin?”

Eiratain breathed in very softly, and leaned back into the throne, wondering if Palasus had ordered the damn thing to be as uncomfortable as possible for him, and wondered if it’d be beneath his dignity to get his servants to scrounge some cushions. “Dangerous thoughts, Champion Terecia. We should not presume to guess at a Gods’ Son’s ambitions,” he said, and placed their hand on the table. “Would you like a drink?”

The Champion’s expression didn’t change, but they nodded, and shifted in their own seat. “I would indeed - but we should not guess at an Astartes’ thoughts? My my my, that in itself is a dangerous thought. True, many see them as weapons, as things made to win unwinnable wars and conquer the unconquerable… but they have minds engineered for great thought.”

“You clearly have not spoken with Kasteral. I have heard The World Eater isn’t a lucid mind, Champion,” Eiratain said, as he took two battered brass cups from the side cabinet of his tantalus, and poured wine for the two of them. “But I will give that he is a warrior that no one should want to fight.”

Terecia took the wine, nodding in thanks, and supped it. Their eyes narrowed ever so faintly, and they took a moment to slosh it about their teeth, as if tasting every drop. Evidently, the wine was not exactly to their tastes. But they masked any distaste or disinterest with a laugh. “I will not mention that comment to his face, sir… but I for one would enjoy duelling the Twelfth Legion’s son. He is… a soldier of commendable brutality. And one can learn something from that.”

The Warlord simply shrugged. “We are getting off topic. You suspect Lord Skarsaan has his own agenda? Of course he does. They all do. They want glory and war and daemonhood,” Eiratain said, shrugging. “They want to tear the Imperium down by all means, and take its throne for their own. They want victory and war. It’s what they were made for.”

Terecia smiled. “But do you suspect something deeper? Skarsaan would not have pushed you to murder an old man - and yes, that duel was murder, and perfect murder it was - if he did not gain some benefit from it.”

Eiratain shrugged, and stared into the cup. It was murky and dark and deep and he drained the wine in one pull. The day had given him a headache, sitting her, as warriors of the Stepped Cities and Citadel made their cases to be heard. He wanted the champion to stop talking, since they had simply rambled, instead of raising anything of value. Of course Skarsaan had some other agenda. It might have been some tactical realisation, a private communication from some other Warlord or Magister... or perhaps the words of the Gods had been whispered in his ear. But Eiratain knew that there was no point in worrying over that. The Crusade had to go ahead.

“These are merely my thoughts. Each of the Gods’ Sons are content to rule a world in the Boundary Stars. They are content to have their minions and have border disputes and have their little rituals - Lord Torien indeed indulges ritualism and decadence enough that I am surprised The Great Hedonist has not taken our precious lord beyond the Veil. But regardless, Skarsaan’s an unknown,” Terecia said, setting the battered cup down, and met the Warlord’s gaze. Eiratain found those bright eyes unnerving, felt as if the Champion had been staring right into his mind. 

For a moment, he felt dread course through him, a prickling on the nape of his neck. He could order the Vorax to shred Terecia. There was no way the Champion would survive, regardless of how swift he was. The fury of the twin rotor cannons could tear them apart. But he urged himself to remain calm. The Vorax gave a small, querying warble, reading its master’s raising vital signs, and flashed its trace beams back and forth again, as if hunting for the cause.

“Hound, stand down,” Eiratain said, realising how agitated he was, how that ran through the node of the Cerebral cortex the Enlightened had gifted him, and he waved a hand. Swaratzhund gave a warble of understanding, and shifted, disengaging its cannon drives, and settled into passive mode. “Are you afraid that Lord Skarsaan has his own agenda that will endanger the Boundary Stars? Or our tentative peace?”

Terecia smiled and tapped a finger to their lips, as if thinking for a moment. “I would say that an Astartes of Lord Skarsaan’s position and history is indeed more likely to have their own agenda to advance. I would be surprised if he did not have something to gain himself. That in of itself is danger.”

There was a moment of tension, and Eiratain wondered if he should inform Skarsaan. The Legionary was indeed his sponsor, and thus he owed him not only a great many debts but also a great deal of loyalty. To hear another speak of his Lord in such a way did not sit well with him. But he also knew that there was some kernel of truth here. Skarsaan had always been a mystery. A Legionary who wore armour that had no symbols or insignia, yet recalled too much of the Heresy to have not been there. And he wore that chrome bright faceplate instead of a face. No one knew what he looked like. And whilst he had been granted nominal leadership over the Legionaries and Renegades who had come to the Boundary, it was precisely because he played to the notion no Legion could trust each other.

“I will concede you may have a point, Terecia,” Eiratain said softly, and steepled his fingers. “That yes, Skarsaan must stand to gain something. And whilst we all stand to gain from this victory, The Lord Perdition did urge us onto this. So it’s natural to suspect he has his own plans and aims to gain something greater than we know,” he said, and finished his own wine.

“But remember, he is my Sponsor, my Blesser,” Eiratain continued, “So I cannot truly offer comment on the matter. Be careful, Monarch of Swords. Some may suspect that you are out to stir your own agendas too.”

“Quite the politician you’ve already become,” Terecia said, and drank down the last of their wine, their amusement at Eiratain’s words overcoming any distaste they had for the dry, acerbic drink. “And you are right not to trust anyone. We all have agendas, all wish to advance our Gods’ ambitions. So you, who bears no one mark, must be very, very careful. Ah, I have stolen your ear for too long. I shall let you rest.” They rose sharply, as if some spring had come loose, and they offered a bow, as sharp as they were, the pearls and gilded chains that decorated their horns swayed and clinked as they smiled. “Do take care.”

Eiratain coughed slightly. “Before you leave, can you please take this missive from the Enlightened to your Lord. They wish to explore some areas of the Boundary that the Four have said are forbidden. It would be… considered a good sign of cooperation if your Lord considered it.”

He held out the dataslate that the Adjudicator had given them. “And if it gets the damned Enlightened Mechanicum off of my back, I would be a surprisingly grateful Warlord.”

 

The beautiful champion reached out and took the proffered slate, tucking it under one arm, and placed a hand over their heart. “I shall remember your ever so grateful manner, dear Warlord. Now rest well,” they said, pursing their dark lips together and striding away. They walked without making a sound, not even the shifting of their mail coat making a noise. 

Swaratzhund’s trace beams flashed over the retreating figure, without pausing to appreciate the Champion. And that made Eiratain rather concerned.


End file.
